


Of a Linear Circle - Part V - Gryffindor

by flamethrower



Series: Of a Linear Circle [7]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alba - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cumbria, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, GFY, Galloway - Freeform, Historical Figures, Historical References, Hogwarts Founders Era, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Moray - Freeform, Muireb, Multi, Mythological References, Nobility, Norðreyjar, Old Norse, Orkney, Physical Abuse, Plotting, Politics, Strathclyde, The line of Wessex is also a clusterfuck, actually all the kingdoms of Briton are a clusterfuck at that point, backstabbing, language porn, old english, poc characters, Éireann
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-03-25 11:12:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 129,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13832949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamethrower/pseuds/flamethrower
Summary: From that point onward and until the very end of his life, Godric will be able to remember the whole of his time on this earth in perfect clarity. He is also the first to tell anyone who asks that this is not the blessing others think it to be.





	1. Grypusdor

**Author's Note:**

> Trying to get started on the "I Owe Lots of Fic Now" pileup. *g* 
> 
> (The Fundraisening is still ongoing, especially as today I discovered that part of the apartment bathroom *floor* has rotted out.)

The first face Godric can recall seeing with utter clarity is not that of his mother or father, but that of his older sister, Leffeda Grypusdor. She has dark red hair and their mother’s gentle brown eyes. There are many freckles across her reddened nose, and her smile is often stern.

Leffeda is speaking to him, not long after the time when words begin to make sense to his ears rather than being soothing hums and thrums of sound, though most of them are still confusing. Only by asking later does Godric know that when this occurs, he is a year old and it is some months after both the Solstice and his birthday. There were treats earlier in the day in celebration of Leffeda’s tenth birthday.

“I’m not magical,” she says, sitting on the woolen rug in front of Godric. She picks up a toy, a beaten Roman solider made of wood and tin, and passes it into Godric’s hands. “Our parents are worried that you’re not magical, either. That brings them concern, Godric. They must have an Heir for Griffon’s Door.”

Heir is a nonsense word. Griffon is a winged lion. Door sounds…important. Godric doesn’t think Leffeda is discussing the doors within their family’s keep.

Leffeda leans forward. “However, little brother— _I_ know that you are a charming pretender! You are magical, and I’ve seen the proof with my own eyes.”

Godric frowns at her and then taps the toy on its head with his finger, setting it to walking. It does not do so very well. Perhaps it’s hurt?

His sister laughs. “And that is exactly what I mean! Why will you not do that in front of Mother and Father?”

“Don’t want to.” Those are also the very first words he speaks. Not _mama_ , not _papa_. Not _Leffa_ or _yes_ or the all-important _no_. He starts with three words, and they leave his family well-armed with the foreknowledge of Godric’s stubborn nature.

Leffeda’s smile loses its stern edge. She looks kinder and prettier when it’s a real smile. “Why not, Godric?”

Godric bites his lip. There are probably good words to say, but he doesn’t know them yet.

“Oh. I see.” Leffeda rescues the soldier before it topples off the corner of the rug and turns it around so it can march the other way. “Do you think they’ll consider it silly?” He stares at her. “Do you think they would not like it, Godric?”

He nods. That isn’t quite right, but it will do.

“Trust me, little brother.” Leffeda startles Godric by standing up and then hauling him into her arms. She is not very tall like their parents, but she is _very_ strong. “Mother and Father will be overjoyed if you show them you have magic. Let’s go do so right now.”

Leofric Grypusdor and his wife Godeva are noisy, happy, and tearful when Godric uses the old toy to demonstrate that he can make it walk. They’re so joyful that Godric suspects Leffeda of mischief.

“I _told_ you he was magical!” Leffeda exclaims triumphantly.

Oh. Now he understands.

Godric glares at her when Mother and Father aren’t looking. He doesn’t have words for this, either, but he knows exactly what she did. Later they will spend the rest of Leffeda’s childhood scoring points off one another, but Godric’s sister definitely aimed true with her first volley.

From that point onward and until the very end of his life, Godric will be able to remember the whole of his time on this earth in perfect clarity. He is also the first to tell anyone who asks that this is not the blessing others think it to be.

After Leffeda’s first volley come the wobbling steps of an infant learning independence. Godric paces his way forward a bit at a time until gravity pulls him down before he stands back up to try again. Each time he gains ground until he’s made it to the outer yard of the keep, where he happily sits in the mud. He animates sticks by prodding at them with dirty fingers, a bit less worried now about what his mother and father might say about using magic for silly things. His parents do not use magic for silly things, but Leffeda insists that they are grown and he is not. If he isn’t going to use magic for harmless things now, when will he ever?

Godric’s mother is quite happy with his accomplishment of escaping the keep. She is less pleased that he chose to celebrate his victory in a mud hole.

Leofric always tells others that the moment Godric learned to run, he never stopped. Godric doesn’t feel the need to stop, racing from one side of the keep to the other when the weather is too miserable to venture beyond the courtyard. In this way he invariably makes friends with the other children his age, and they race around the keep and along its battlements.

Uchered is a boy a few months older with curly blond hair and a Dane’s sea-green eyes, though he was born on English soil to English parents, both who serve Godric’s father. Aubri is a brown-haired, brown-skinned boy from Egypt. He is a bit younger than they, but he is still tallest, which Godric does not think fair at all. Edytha is a blue-eyed girl nearly Godric’s exact age, daughter of a young serving woman of the keep named Meraud. They are both from the kingdom of Moravia, and it is from Edytha that Godric starts picking up hints of the Gaoidhealg language used in the north.

Sometimes even Godeva will run with Godric, chasing him as his shrieking laughter echoing off the walls. When she invariably catches up, she’ll sweep Godric into her arms and insist that they devote time to lessons. She knows how to bribe him from the very start, as Godric dislikes remaining still and he dislikes these first lessons even less. It isn’t that he is stupid, or that he finds learning difficult. These things just require too much _sitting_.

His tutors go to his parents carrying tales when they overhear Godric say words that are not English. “You do not wish to learn sums or Latin, but Gaelic you will learn?” Godeva asks, laughing.

“They actually _speak_ Gaoidhealg,” Godric retorts, making certain to say it correctly. Edytha slings dung at those who do not, and he takes enough baths as it is.

“They speak Latin in the Church, both kingdoms of the Franks, and among the academics,” Godeva chastises him gently. “Would it be easier to learn if someone were here to speak it directly to you?”

He wants to say yes, but it’s a miserable trap and Godric knows it. His mother will arrange it whether he agrees or not. He is terrible at planning.

Godric decides it is time to get better at it, or Leffeda will always win. “I will agree to a Latin speaker if _you_ agree to find someone who will teach me…planning. Tactics.” There, that is the proper word.

“Tactics.” Godeva smiles in the same way Leffeda does when she’s caught him out. Then she escorts him directly to his father and relays Godric’s request to Leofric. “Well?” she says when Godric just stares at them both. “He is the Magical Eorl over the whole of Somerset, Godric. Your father is the leader of magical warfare in this region if the king has need of that sort of assistance. Of course he will be your first teacher!”

Godric does not actually mind this arrangement. It means he sees his father more often, though Leofric is a bit less patient with Godric’s insatiable need to move. Once he has learned the rules of Latrunculi, Godric mistakes it as a simple, but his father then wins every single game. The lesson stings, but it drives home the point; it is not simple at all.

“Our family has been playing Latrunculi since the House of Griffon dwelled in ancient Rome.” Leofric gives him a very particular look, causing Godric to sit up straighter in response. “The Game of Brigands is not where the art of war ends. It is where it _begins_.”

They eventually reach a compromise, a word that Godric comes to define as a blend of tactics and diplomacy. If Godric remains seated until Leofric is certain Godric has learnt a lesson properly, he will allow Godric to pace as they play games of Latrunculi together. If Leofric knows that pacing increases Godric’s skill, helping him to evade the first traps, to see the whole of the wooden battlefield, he does not let on that he has noticed.

Only when Godric begins winning at the Game of Brigands—Leofric never once makes it an easy task—does his father introduce another lesson in strategy. This one is known most often as Tafl, a creation of the Danes. Leofric tells Godric that _tafl_ is the Northman’s word for table, but he instead calls this game The King’s Fist. Brigands is a game begun with both sides equal in strength, but Leofric says Tafl is more realistic in the sense that no battle is ever fought on equal terms. One army will always have an advantage over another in one or more ways: the number of soldiers on each side, types of weaponry, training, how well each army knows the ground upon which they fight, the weather, strengths or weaknesses in armor, supplies, disease in the ranks, tiredness which makes soldiers prone to mistakes, positions lost and gained, or the support of those they fight for.

“There is also the matter of loyalty,” Leofric says as he surrounds and slaughters Godric’s trapped king with terrifying ease. One king and twelve soldiers against twenty-four attackers is not very fair at all, but Godric is at least smart enough to understand that this is the game’s entire point.

“Loyalty?”

Leofric taps the wooden board with his wand, causing each piece to righten themselves and return to their original position. Then he touches the king in the center of the board. “Take the ruler here who is trapped. In a real battle, it is not merely knowledge that may save them. It is the loyalty of those surrounding this ruler, protecting them from harm. If this ruler has wronged their protectors, their protectors may not be so willing to serve and save their liege. If this ruler has done right by their soldiers, then they will be _determined_ to help their liege survive, to win the day.”

“It all seems very complicated,” Godric says.

“It truly is,” Leofric agrees quietly. “I am not a young man, Godric, and still there are new things that I learn. Do you wish to continue learning these lessons now that you understand more of what they entail?”

Godric nods. “Leffeda keeps _winning_ ,” he mutters. Leofric raises an eyebrow, but he does not yet question why Godric is only concerned with besting his sister. Those questions come several years later. By then, Godric understands exactly what is at stake, and why it’s a responsibility he isn’t certain he wants to bear.

Leofric teaches Godric more on the nature of bargaining, as well; Godric will be allowed to sit in on meetings with other magicians and families of importance in the area if Godric will hold still and hold his tongue in order to listen. Then he can break free and find something to do to settle the itch lurking beneath his skin. It is worth it to learn more of what his father does, or why men and women look to Leofric of Grypusdor for help with problems in the eorldom.

He must have shown some sign of skill, of sitting still to his father’s preference. Two days before Godric’s fourth birthday, Leofric takes Godric with him to Corfe Castle for the Summer Solstice gathering of eorls and magicians of the kingdom. Godric’s new woolen tunic has been dyed the bright scarlet of Griffon’s Door, which he rather likes, but it is a battle not to fidget in these clothes. The fine linen is dyed a brilliant yellow that looks like warm sunlight, but it is too new, too crisp, and might drive him to distraction. Even the hose feels far too stiff. Why would anyone wish to dress like this all the time?

Then there are his other concerns. When will everyone stop making boring speeches? Some of what others say is interesting, but Godric can feel his eyes glazing over like those of the dead when certain families never cease droning on about crops and something called percentages.

Maybe putting everyone to sleep is the point. He is not great at sums, but Godric is all but certain that the last bit of mathematics he heard quoted is not correct.

Godric glances up at his father, who looks down just long enough to give Godric a faint nod. He was right!

Godric scowls. He was _right_.

He is angry for all the remaining speeches. How dare they? Do they not serve this kingdom and their king? What excuse do they have to lie to their sovereign?

“Please do keep your thoughts to yourself for the time being,” Leofric murmurs, and then Godric finds himself being presented to the King of the English. Given the tales Godric has heard, the pride in others’ voices in regards to Edgar of Wessex, he’s surprised to find that his king is much younger than Leofric, who will be fifty-four in Augustus. King Edgar is only twenty-four years of age. Queen Ælfthryth is even younger, sitting to one side of the king’s throne with a swaddled infant on her lap—the prince Edmund.

It’s the look in the king’s eyes that convinces him where crown and sword do not. There is a heavy weight in King Edgar’s brown gaze that seems too powerful for someone who is not a magician.

Or is the House of Wessex magical? Godric does not blurt out that question. Instead, he makes a different sort of blunder.

“It is a pleasure to finally greet Leofric of Grypusdor’s son, the Eorl Godric of Somerset—” the king begins to say.

“Grypusdor.” Godric winces when his father and the queen both turn disapproving eyes on him. Too late for it, though. Godric hopes his king isn’t in the habit of beheading children. “Father is the Magical Eorl of Somerset. I’m just Godric of Grypusdor, Sire.”

To his relief, the king laughs. “You are not _just_ Godric of Grypusdor. You are Lord Godric of Grypusdor as Heir to your father.”

Godric feels a dim sort of horror. “Others won’t call me that, will they?” His friends in Griffon’s Door will never stop laughing at the very idea.

“No, not now. Not until you are older,” King Edgar says. “However, in my Court, you will hear yourself addressed as such from the lips of all. They well recognize the magical Heir and Guardian of Griffon’s Door, Lord Godric of Somerset.”

Godric is not convinced that’s the best idea, no matter how old he is. Much like Leffeda’s trickery, though, he doesn’t think he has much choice. Besides, it probably isn’t wise to attempt his youthful bargaining on his own king. “All right, Sire.”

When they go home, the family and his tutors continue in their attempts to convince Godric to sit still and educate himself. He learns to read and write in proper English. He speaks Gaoidhealg well enough from conversations with Edytha and her mother, though no one is asking him to write and spell its words. He does do well enough also in speaking Latin, but learning to write in that language is such hardship that his magic surges forth and engulfs a roll of paper in a gout of flame.

“I hate it,” Godric mutters when asked.

His father’s mother, Laguia, has come to the keep by the time of the incident with the scroll. Her name means _long life_ , and Godric wonders if her parents intended to curse their daughter. Grandmother Laguia is one hundred fifteen years old. Her face is so carved with wrinkles that sometimes Godric has trouble finding the thin edges of her lips to know if she is smiling in approval or frowning in dismay.

Laguia is the one who joins him outside the keep, uttering not a word of complaint about sitting on chill ground. She is the first elder Godric has ever known of not to do so. He wonders often if it is because she sees no point, or if she truly suffers no pains of age. “It is a wise man who knows Latin in our time, grandson.”

“Why?” Godric asks petulantly. “We’re English! Why should we learn a tongue from Rome?”

“You know that one day you will inherit the responsibility of Griffon’s Door and the magical title of Somerset.” Godric frowns; he still hopes his parents will have another magical child who would be far more willing to take on that role. He is going to be six years old this summer, and Mother is not too old to bear another child. “Even if you did not do so, Godric, one should always be able to understand the words of the Church, no matter if they are spoken by a humble friar or the Pope of Rome himself.”

Godric glances up at Laguia. “Why, Grandmother?”

“Then you know if they speak of God’s word truly, or if they use false words of their own,” Laguia replies. “Even those who anoint themselves as holy before God can succumb to the worst of temptations. If they falter, there must be another who is able to stand up before the altar and speak the truth.”

“Oh.” That sounds like tactics, but it also sounds as if… “Have you ever needed to do so, Grandmother?”

Laguia allows herself a placid nod. “Three times in my life, the sacred number of the Trinity. I was younger then. They did not wish to listen. My wand forced them to do so. You must know how to be just and wise, Godric. As a magician, as a ruler, or as both.”

“I don’t know anything of magic yet,” Godric mutters, staring down at the ground. Bright green sprigs of summer grass and flowers are beginning to sprout even though the earth is still cold to the touch. “I can ask things to happen, and they do, but I have no wand. No one has taught me magic.”

“Given what I’ve heard of your inability to keep still, it does not surprise me that those lessons have been withheld,” Laguia says, but she does not sound scornful. “A magician must show mastery of the self, grandson. If you had not shown improvement in the months since I arrived, I would not now reveal what I am about to show you.”

“I’ve _improved_?” Godric hears the disbelief in his own voice. Godric has been told quite the opposite from everyone but the weapon’s master for Griffon’s Door, a stern older warrior who is quite pleased by Godric’s boundless enthusiasm. Erneis has an appreciative view of a student who, when knocked onto their backside, merely bounces back up to take another blow.

“You have. Come with me,” Laguia instructs. Godric is polite and helps her to stand, even if he still suspects that she doesn’t need his assistance at all.

Laguia escorts him to a path in the forest beyond the cleared ground around the keep. Godric has the oddest sensation the moment they enter the wood, as if there are eyes upon them. Laguia chuckles, as if aware, and leads them deeper into the forest.

“I have ridden a pony around these trees,” Godric says after some time has passed. “This is a grove. It is not this…large.”

“That is because you walked around it. Walking along its path is another matter entirely. Do you know what a Door Guardian is?”

Godric shakes his head. He remembers King Edgar calling Leofric a guardian, but nothing of doors beyond the name of his own home.

“I was my father’s Heir, not my brothers,” Laguia says, surprising him. Godric didn’t know that women could inherit unless one goes among the Danes or the Britons. “I married while standing on the land of my birth. He was a good man named Wystan. I named your father’s younger brother after him when my husband was unexpectedly felled in battle.” It is easy to see that Laguia is frowning. “I am not certain that your Uncle Wystan has the same qualities as your grandfather, but he is still young yet.”

She falls silent. Godric has no idea what is required. He settles for, “Yes, Grandmother.”

“I remained the Guardian here until your father married your mother and proved himself capable of taking on the title in my stead. Then I moved on, training the Guardians who watch over the Door in Gifle.”

“Gifle? That is only five miles to the south!” Godric is happy to have found something during this strange walk that makes sense.

“It is. The Lady Osthryth and her husband Gabell are good magicians whom you have already met during your father’s councils. Gabell is a Briton, and has the appearance of one as well. Osthryth is a walking flame,” Laguia informs him.

Godric nods. He does recall them now, but did not realize they were such close neighbors. “What sort of door does a Guardian watch over, Grandmother?”

“This one.”

Godric halts in surprise. The path has suddenly become a large clearing. Within the clearing is the gentle rise of a hill the height of his tall father. Growing from the very top of that hill is an oak tree with fine, curving branches and a full crown of leaves as if it is already Midsummer. The feeling of being watched has become breathtaking, but Godric feels excitement, not fear.

“This, grandson, is one of the Great Doors,” Laguia says in a soft, reverent voice. “Though it seems to be mere hill with a tree of power growing from it, it is more. It is a door to other realms, and because of this, it is to be guarded.”

“From who?”

“We guard it from the ignorant.” Laguia smiles at the tree. “From the foolish. From those who would seek to harm this place, if only to save such a fool from themselves. We guard it _for_ those who still travel along these ancient paths, though such doors are no longer meant for the passage of man.”

“If man is not meant to use these Doors, why must they be guarded against men?”

Laguia chuckles. “I said they were not meant for the passage of man. I did not say that man could not pass through the Great Doors.”

“Oh.” Godric studies the tree. “If man isn’t trying to use the Door, is it safe to sit on the hill?”

“Only if man is invited to do so.” Laguia takes Godric’s hand and turns them around. “You will know if that comes to pass. The knowledge will come to your thoughts.”

The walk out of the wood is much, much shorter than their journey inward. “Does it always take so long?” Godric asks. “And so short to return?”

“It depends on the path of the ley,” Laguia answers him, words that make no sense at all. “All of the Great Doors lie along magical lines of power that hide beneath the land of Briton. They do not necessarily keep still. The Doors always look the same, but that does not mean they remain in place. Magic moves, grandson. Magic is wild and free, much as you are.

“You are meant to be the Guardian of this Door, Godric.” Laguia gives him a grave look that makes Godric want to squirm in place. “It is time for the rest of your education to begin.”

Godric doesn’t understand why it was his grandmother’s decision, but from then on, he is immersed in his parents’ duties: to the keep of Griffon’s Door, to the Door itself, to Somerset, and to their king. Magic and lessons twine themselves together until he almost forgets they had once been separate.

He still does not like to sit still for long. Laguia, who moves only when she must, with slow, stately grace, understands this when others do not. She changes the schedule that Godric’s tutors always insisted upon, allowing him more freedom to rid himself of the itch beneath his skin. Laguia insists that it is his own magic causing the described itch, and to restrain such magic is foolishness.

One of Godric’s tutors voices his ire, claiming that allowing Godric such freedom will not teach him dignity or responsibility. Godric learns exactly how much power Laguia still holds in Griffon’s Door when that same tutor is packed up and ejected from the keep before nightfall of the same day.

“But I do not yet have a wand. Or a staff,” Godric thinks to add. Laguia oversees him as younger magicians show Godric how to stand, how to move, and how to voice the spells in proper Latin. Godric often rolls his eyes and casts them in English as well; why should he not? It amuses his grandmother, even though it often causes his teachers to make pained faces.

“When a wand or staff finally comes to your hand, you will already know much of what you can do with it,” Godeva says. She is standing with his grandmother today, watching her son with concerned eyes. His mother looks tired, as if she is trying to take ill. “Young Oriel has already learned to perform Síðian. You will practice the skill with her.”

“I thought Oriel only a servingman’s daughter,” Godric says in confusion.

“Oriel’s father does not have magic, but her mother did, and she learns it well. She understands how valuable a magical servant is, even amongst other magicians,” Godeva chastises him. Godric nods, accepting the rebuke. He has never even seen Oriel with a wand.

Perhaps she does not have one yet. No one needs a wand for magical travel.

Godric is willing to be a friend to the older girl when she teaches him to travel by magic, but it is Oriel who insists otherwise, keeping a formal distance between them. “Why?” he asks, frustrated when another bout of spinning leaves him dizzy but unmoved from within his circle of rocks.

“Because one day you will be my overlord,” Oriel explains, giving him a wry look. “Magicians are of equal rank, but you will always be an Eorl as well. I will not.”

“People of differing ranks can be friends,” Godric says. “Edytha, Aubri, and Uchered are my friends!”

“But they are not your servants,” Oriel points out. “Do it again.”

Godric spins in place without concentrating properly and falls over. “Uchered’s parents serve mine!”

“That does not mean Uchered wishes for the same. Edytha is still of age with you. Her mother will be forced to remind her of a servant’s place as she grows older,” Oriel says. “Meraud will not do so out of anger or contempt. She will do so because she will recall what it means for them both to properly serve an Eorl and Guardian of Griffon’s Door.”

“It shouldn’t be that way,” Godric mutters, spinning again. He leaves the circle by the span of a single hand, but it is still a success.

“You are Heir, but you are not yet Lord of Griffon’s Door. If you wish to be so uncivilized when you are older, that is your decision, not mine,” Oriel says with a haughty sniff.

It’s a relief to finally master Síðian to first Oriel’s satisfaction, and then to his grandmother’s exacting standards. Oriel seems quite nice, but she has made it clear that they are not friends. Godric has enough to concern himself with than to spend time arguing with another magician seven years older about rank and companionship.

Godric has no idea why he is subjected to learning _franceis_ until the summer he turns seven, when he, his father, and his mother travel across the water to Brittany. Godric finally meets other members of his mother’s birth house of Cloister’s Mark. They all speak _franceis_ and Breton, a language that formed from Briton’s older language. If it weren’t for the Cornish speakers from the southwest and the Cumbric speakers traveling from the north, Godric would find their tongue completely incomprehensible.

Fair is fair, perhaps; Godric’s cousins find him to be too tall, his hair too red, and his energy too unsettling. Godric tells them all that they’re rude idiots to speak to family in such manner.

None of his cousins know what _idiot_ means and wish to be enlightened. Godric sighs and explains it, though perhaps he might have done a better job. None of the adults are pleased to discover eight children now calling every person they meet an idiot, giggling like fools while they do so.

His mother’s sister, Aunt Ostrythe, seems exhausted as she attempts to correct the manners of eight children. Godric wonders if his other Aunt Hawis ever attends to her own children, or if Aunt Ostrythe is forced to do all the childrearing on her own.

“Do they not have fathers?” Godric asks. He knows that Ostrythe, as eldest of a family that had only daughters, inherited Cloister’s Mark; his uncle took her family’s name. Hawis is married with a home of her own elsewhere in Brittany, but seems to spend all of her time with her sister.

Godeva sighs. “Son.”

“It isn’t _my_ fault that the other children are rude,” Godric grumbles under his breath.

“Mind your diplomacy. Those are lessons you will definitely have to attend to in better fashion, Godric.”

“I’d rather not.” Godric doesn’t want to be bogged down in deportment and bowing and Court nonsense. From Erneis and the keep’s soldiers, he learns how to use a sword, dagger, and bow. Leofric is continuing Godric’s lessons in tactics, bringing in tutors who specialize only in the arts of war. Godric is learning the first lessons of proper Mind Magic from Laguia, another talent that does not require a wand. That is all far more interesting than _diplomacy_.

“You did say if I find someone who does not know a thing, I should tell them!”

“I was referring less to educating your cousins and more to your words regarding their fathers.” Godeva escorts Godric to a quiet alcove in the old Roman stone of Cloister’s Mark. “Your Uncle Wischard and Uncle Thim—they both fight in the army for the Kingdom of West Francia. The Franks of the west and the East Franks of the new Roman Empire are often at odds.”

Godric lets out a relieved breath. “For a moment, I feared you were going to tell me they were both dead!”

“No.” Godeva looks thoughtful as she places her hand on her belly. “Fortunately not, but they are not home often. Your father and I are speaking of sending assistance to Hawis and Ostrythe so that your aunts educate young noble men and women, not a wild horde.”

Her gowns and robes hid the shape before, but now Godric is certain. “You’re carrying a child!”

Godeva smiles and leans over to plant a kiss on his forehead. “I am. This was our last opportunity for me to travel safely by magic before the babe is born, and I wished for my sisters to know that they will have another nephew.”

“A boy?” Godric waits for his mother to nod. “Magical?”

“Those who Divine are certain it is a boy, but are uncertain of his magic,” Godeva replies, and smiles. “We think to name him Alfrid.”

Godric embraces his mother. He has forgotten entirely his desire not to be his father’s Heir. The joy of having a sibling who is _not_ merciless Leffeda is more important. “I think it a fine name.”

He is not spared a second lecture. “Given how much you take after your grandfather Godwine, I harbor no hopes of you ever taming your blunt nature,” Leofric says when they are alone in the guest chambers that evening. “However, you will one day be Lord of Griffon’s Door, Magical Eorl over Somerset. You must at least learn when to hold your tongue.”

“Very well,” Godric mumbles, pointedly ignoring the amused look his parents share. It seems he will not be avoiding the horrors of diplomacy. “But I’m not going to lie if someone asks me what a word means!”

“Holding your tongue often means not speaking of questionable words,” Godeva reminds him. Godric scowls and thinks on how he shouldn’t have had to teach his Brittany-dwelling cousins about a _franceis_ word in the first place.

Alfrid of Grypusdor is born the day after the Winter Solstice in 970. The baby is a tiny thing with their mother’s pale brown hair. His eyes are blue at birth, but by spring, Alfrid and their mother share the same gentle brown eyes. Alfrid is the spitting image of their mother captured in male, infant form; Godric looks more and more like his father with every day that passes; Leffeda is the only one of the three who bothered to take on traits from both their parents.

As if Alfrid’s birth and continued health is a sign, Leffeda is offered a contract to wed the son of an eorl north of the seaport in Bristol. As a lady of the keep, Leffeda has not been a prominent part of Godric’s life since she was dubbed a woman rather than a child, but she is still his sister. The thought of her departure fills him with…

Dread? No. That cannot possibly be right. If anything, Godric should be pleased—his sister loves her betrothed. Nineteen-year-old Astell is Heir to the Magical Eorl Alard and Countess Linet of Clover’s Hand. Their small magical eorldom rules over the land of Thornbyrig, a secret posting of the king meant to keep watch and send warning if the Cymru ever cross the border intent upon war.

Regardless of Leffeda’s happiness, Godric follows his father to the marriage bargaining table and watches as Leofric conducts harsh negotiations. They are meant to ensure Leffeda’s happiness as well as their House’s future prospects, but Godric still feels vaguely terrified over the idea that he may once be responsible for something exactly like this.

The result was not in doubt, even though the process seems long and fraught. Leffeda and Astell are contracted to wed on the first day of summer that same year. Godeva voices concern that Leffeda will not be eighteen until September, but Astell swears by their Holy Maker that he will always treat Leffeda of Grypusdor with utmost kindness. Godric stares up at Astell’s face, thinks Leffeda’s betrothed is being truthful, and says so. Godeva rolls her eyes but agrees with him.

Eorl Alard and Countess Linet both seem pleased with the results of the negotiations, though they had to agree to pass on the ownership of a small keep to the south of Bristol. It will go to Alfrid, an assurance that Godric’s new brother will have a certain inheritance. It also gives Griffon’s Door direct access to a rich port, one that will enable them to better the keep, the lands, and possibly the whole of Somerset. In return, Clover’s Hand know that they will have the full strength and support of the Magical Eorl of Somerset should troubles arise, no matter if they are Cymru or a fresh onslaught of Danes.

Leffeda and Astell are married in the church of Givelcestre, reciting the holy vows to God and each other before all of their families, and all the magicians of Somerset. Even young Prince Edward, son of Æthelflæd of Candida and King Edgar’s named Heir to the throne, makes an appearance to signal the king’s support of the marriage. He is in the company of Dunstan, the Archbishop of Canterbury, who nods in approval of the ceremony before escorting the prince away from the church.

The wedding feast is held at Griffon’s Door, the last time Leffeda will dwell in their childhood home before Astell takes her north to Clover’s Hand. Godric has never seen the keep so crowded, as if the stone walls will burst at the corners at any moment. He is introduced to many people and ignored by many others, but he prefers it that way. Godric would much rather be ignored—and maybe underestimated—by those who can’t be bothered to make themselves known to Leofric’s Heir.

Or perhaps that is no longer a concern. Alfrid may yet take that title, and Godric happy to give it to him. Alfrid can be Eorl of Somerset; Godric will guard the Door.

Godeva all but snatches him up by the hand when she spies Godric lurking with Aubri and Uchered in a quiet corner. “Come with me,” she says, pulling him along behind her without giving him chance to answer.

“All right, then,” Godric mutters, gaining his feet so that his mother doesn’t drag him around the entire keep. “What is it, Mother?”

“A renewed acquaintance. They are close neighbors and they guard the Door closest to ours, so it is a necessity that they are reminded of your existence,” Godeva explains in a low voice. “In this instance, you _will_ mind your diplomacy, such as it is.”

“Yes, Mother,” Godric says, and then he recognizes the bright flame of the Lady Osthryth’s hair. She is standing with her husband Gabell, who still looks very much a true Briton even with silver creeping into his dark hair.

“Lady Osthryth and Sir Gabell of Gifle, this is my elder son and Leofric’s Heir, Godric of Grypusdor,” Godeva introduces him. Godric musters a polite smile. “Godric, Sir Gabell and Lady Osthryth are the Guardians of the Fosse Door, so named after the old Roman Fosse Way.”

“It’s a pleasure to greet you again,” Godric says. His mother isn’t nudging him, so he has not yet blundered.

“And it is a great pleasure to greet the future Magical Eorl over Somerset,” Lady Osthryth replies in a grave voice that is rich with magic and power. She reminds Godric of someone, but he can’t recall who that might be.

“You have grown much since we last laid eyes upon you. It is a surprise that you do not yet bear a wand,” Gabell says.

“A wand will find me soon enough,” Godric says, and then blinks a few times in surprise. He hadn’t quite meant to say that, but it feels like a certainty. “I learn well in the meantime, Sir Gabell.”

Gabell smiles. “So I see. Oh—I must introduce you to our youngest daughter.” He takes a step to the side and guides forth a girl with her mother’s flame-bright hair. Both of her parents have brown eyes, but hers are a warm summer blue. “This is Sedemai of Gifle and Fosse’s Door, Lady of the House of Wessex through the Lady Osthryth’s line.”

Sedemai stares at him as if he’s an odd curiosity. Godric stares right back; she is younger than he, Godric is certain of it, but she’s _his_ height. Not even Leffeda can claim that. “Hello.”

“Greetings to you, Lord Godric,” Sedemai offers, looking uncomfortable. “Congratulations on your sister’s wedding.”

Godric belatedly remembers to hold out his hand. “Leffeda deserves the congratulations, not me.”

“She’s _busy_ ,” Sedemai says in a disgruntled mutter, resting her dainty hand over Godric’s callused fingers. Godric can feel magic singing against his hand, and for the first time in his life, he does not feel that distracting itch beneath his skin.

“It’s really—you’re really—uh, greetings to you.” Godric feels utterly foolish. “It’s nice to meet such a close neighbor. Uh—magician.”

Sedemai cocks her head. “You are very, very odd.”

“Yes?” Godric still hasn’t let go of her hand. Neither has she released him.

“Oh. My.” The Lady Osthryth sounds fascinated. “Now that I didn’t expect at all.”

“Nor did I.” Godeva puts her hand on Godric’s shoulder. “Come along. There are others you must greet before the evening grows long.”

Godric stumbles away from the Fosse Guardians, feeling dazed as he spares another glance over his shoulder. Sedemai looks just as bewildered. “What was that, Mother?”

Godeva purses her lips. “Nothing you need yet concern yourself with.”

“But what _was_ it?” Godric insists. She distracts him by introducing Godric to the Eorl and Countess of Isca, the last English port in the southwest before Cornwall holds sway. Godric greets them properly—he hopes—but he can’t stop thinking about Sedemai’s hand resting over his.


	2. Rome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You like to say many words at a time. I have always been encouraged to say few.”
> 
> “I’m told that I can fill a room with words all by myself, but so far none of them have been particularly stupid words.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: Only vaguely beta'd as the full-fledged betas are busy with life making things crazy; any typos caught were nabbed by the cheer-readers @norcumi and @jabberwockypie. If there are hilarious mistakes remaining, I didn't see them and will probably facepalm a lot, but I really, *really* wanted to post a chapter!
> 
> Note the second: Peter wasn't being spelled that way yet but since the transition from Petras to Peter is a bit vague...eh.

Godric never once paid much attention to his height except when comparing himself to Uchered and Aubri. He is a Saxon; Uchered, for all he is properly English, is of the Danes; Aubri claims his height from the bronze-skinned Moors and black-skinned men in the kingdoms south of Egypt. They all began towering over Edytha a long time ago, but that does not change the fact that she is the most deadly of the four of them when it comes to her aim with dung, mud, or stone.

It isn’t until he meets Sedemai during Leffeda’s wedding that Godric pays more attention to everyone around him in a way that he had not before. He did not ignore faces, exactly, but he comes to recognize that he used a combination of height, color, and voice to identify a person, not merely a single part.

Godric also realizes that for his age, he is entirely too tall. Uchered and Aubri have their heritage as an excuse; he does not. He is taller than his sister _and_ his mother several years before it should be so. Once he roams about, Godric finds that he is taller than all of the women in the keep. There are many men to compare himself to who are of typical height in England, and Godric is only a mere head shorter than all of them. Fortunately, he is nowhere near to outgrowing Leofric, who is the tallest man Godric knows. They must travel to Court to see those who can match Godric’s father for height, and even they are few in number.

Godric speaks of all this with his father, who is quick to point out this out as a failing both political and tactical. If Godric lacks only one of the features he uses to recognize another, he may not know friend from foe. He may not be capable of recognizing _danger_ until it is too late, whether that danger comes from a Court or a battlefield. Godric has a great deal of trouble taking in all of these details of a person at a single glance, but his father is correct. He just isn’t certain how he’ll ever improve. Much like his inability to sit still, his desire to run, Godric has often moved along to his next thought before he’s finished exchanging greetings with whomever he’s come across.

Leofric thinks on the problem only for an evening before he introduces Godric to another game. “The name has been lost,” he says, showing Godric to a table covered in a linen sheet. “Some say it came from the Danes. Some think it originates in the land once called Dál Riata in the western reaches of the north of Briton, part of the land now ruled by Alba. If so, it would have been long ago, a time when the Danes had not yet traveled to the Isle of Éireann, and those two mingled people of Danes and Gael had not yet come to our shores.”

“Gaeil,” Godric corrects his father, trying his best to look scholarly and not insolent.

Leofric raises an eyebrow. “If you correct my speech to the Gaeil, then _you_ will remember from now onward that the Danes are properly the Norræn.”

“The Norse.” Godric is glad he already knew that word.

Leofric nods his approval and continues. “It is also possible this game comes from the Britons and Picts, though neither have memory long enough to claim it with any certainty. No matter its origins, it has survived, though it is treated as a children’s game rather than the valuable tool I know it to be. Your grandmother taught it to me when I was young.”

 Godric looks at the lumpy sheet and suspects he is very much not going to like this game, not if it was of Laguia’s devising. “What must I do?”

“In war, dangers are often hidden from our sight by trees, grass, wind, storm, or snow. You must be able to see even when others cannot.” Leofric’s smile is not at all kind, but it often is not during their lessons. “I will remove this linen for a single turn of the minute glass,” he says, holding up the glass and its pale sand. “You will look. When I cover all on this table again, you must tell me everything that was placed upon it.”

Godric was right; he does not like this game. He can recall perhaps five items when the cloth is returned, but there are not five items on the table. Not ten. Not twenty.

There are fifty items. Many of them are quite small.

“I’m meant to be able to see an embroidery needle in a snowstorm.” Godric can hear the flat disbelief in his voice.

“Arrows can fly at you from the thick silence of a heavy snowfall. In flight, they are very slight,” Leofric says.

“Not as slight as an embroidery needle!”

Leofric is unmoved. “If you can learn to see the needle in the storm, the arrow will prove no difficulty.”

Godric is still young enough to go scream into his own pillow when he returns to his chamber after that lesson. He would rather go back to being trounced at Tafl, or King’s Fist, or whatever his father wishes to call it. This is the sort of torturous memorization that many of his tutors believe in!

“Yes, he learned it,” Laguia confirms when Godric seeks her out. “As did I when I was young. Your father was not very good at it, though he has a keener eye than many.”

“What about you, Grandmother?”

Laguia smiles. “My teacher had to double the number of objects to one hundred after my first year.”

Godric groans and buries his head in his hands. He is doomed. Utterly doomed.

His grandmother chuckles and pats his shoulder. “The point of this lesson is not to bring despair. Despite your nature, you must still learn to observe. Leofric gives you one of those lessons, and I control the other.”

“Father says I will be able to see an embroidery needle in a snowstorm,” Godric mutters, sulking. It is unbecoming behavior of one who will be ten years old three days after the Summer Solstice, but he does not currently care.

“I do not know if you will ever gain the sharp eyes of one who can see the embroidery needle in the storm,” Laguia says, “but the arrow? That, I believe you will see.” She sounds musing, and her voice gains a particular echo that seems very odd. “Sometimes you will see the arrow, but to dodge it? That is yet another lesson, grandson. If to dodge the arrow means the injury or death of an ally, is it right to step aside?

“I do not suggest that you should volunteer to die in their place,” Laguia adds, glancing over to see the frown on Godric’s face. “I say that you should learn to see the arrow and understand its flight. If the only way to keep the arrow from killing another is to stop its path, it is better for the arrow to strike your armor? To lodge itself in less vital parts of your body? Or, if you are swift enough, would it not be best to have the skill to knock the arrow from the sky?”

“Does that also apply to magic?” Godric asks, curious.

“Absolutely it does,” Laguia answers in a firm voice. “If you learn well, you will detect the needle in the storm even if you are thundering along a trail on horseback.”

He feels his eyes widen. That sounds incredible, like something only the best of warriors or magicians are capable of.

Laguia smiles, as if recognizing his thoughts. Perhaps she does; Godric is still not the greatest student of Mind Magic. “Come with me.”

Laguia does not take Godric back to the Door, though he likes the peace of the grove. Even the staring eyes no longer bother him. He is aware of their presence but he does not bring harm, and those who stare at him do not bring threat. Instead, they go for a long walk in the fields around the keep.

It seems perfectly innocent until Laguia begins asking Godric questions. “How many birds did you see?”

“Three,” Godric says. He was eying a goose with vague thoughts of his sling and dinner.

“Wrong,” she replies. “There were fifteen.”

If he thought that would be the least of it, he was very, very wrong. The questions continue. Did you note the mushrooms? How many sticks have we stepped over? What bird’s call was that? How many poisonous plants have we walked near? How many herbs for meals? How many meant for sickness?

Godric calls her out in regards to those last three questions. He has not yet had enough lessons on plants to be able to know for certain what he did and did not see.

Laguia counters by telling him to name all of the plants he did recognize, those she knows he is aware of because she gave him those lessons herself. Godric does not answer that properly, either, noticing only half the number that Laguia claimed to see. He is stubborn enough to insist that they turn around and follow their footsteps back along their easily seen trail in the tall grass to count them again.

There are as many plants as Laguia said. Godric thinks many words in his head that are not fit for the ears of anyone but his friends.

Laguia smiles as she leans against her favored staff of grey-toned ash. “A true memory of what is seen at a glance. The ability to notice all that is around you. A Guardian must be capable of this to see every threat that might attempt to harm a Door.”

“I don’t understand.” Godric hopes he doesn’t sound pathetic. Again. “I can remember _everything_ else, Grandmother. I’ve remembered all that has happened in my life from the moment Leffeda tricked me into showing Mother and Father that I could perform magic.”

She does not seem concerned. “Those are events, and they are large. Large things are easier, especially when you are younger. It does not require the fierceness of concentration to recall the shape of an event. That is the skill you lack.”

“Then it’s like fidgeting,” Godric grumbles.

“You can fidget all you like and still be capable of concentrating,” Laguia reminds him in a sharp voice. “Do not fool yourself that way, even if my son sometimes forgets and tries to force it to be otherwise. We will walk, and you will watch, and you will concentrate on _all_ that is before you. I do believe you see the whole of the picture very well. Now you will learn to see its details.”

The second walk does not go much better than the first, but now that Godric understands his grandmother’s point, he does try. It seems as if she is capable of looking everywhere at once without looking at anything at all. Godric swivels his head around so much he might resemble a puppet’s head on a loose joint and still doesn’t observe even a quarter of what Laguia sees.

Godric returns to his mother’s chamber so that he can sit on the rug next to Alfrid, just as Leffeda used to sit on the rug before him. His brother is just over a year old—it is, Godric realizes, almost the exact age Godric had been when Leffeda teased him.

“I am not going to force you to prove whether you are magical or not,” Godric tells his brother, who looks up at him with wide and adoring brown eyes. His hair is still little more than soft brown fluff, though Alfrid has recently gained the ability to toddle around on unsteady legs. He falls less than Godric did in those days, already better at balance and trusting his own feet beneath him.

Godric has not trusted his own feet beneath him for the last two years. He’s grown too fast and can’t keep track of his own limbs, much to the amusement of those whose bodies granted them the dignity of growing taller at a normal pace.

“Goh-ric.” Alfrid holds out a wood and tin soldier. They were Godric’s when he was a child, and they are beginning to look rather pathetic after being the property of two other children before reaching their current owner.

Godric smiles and puts the soldier on the rug, tapping it with his finger. It begins marching gainfully along, though it has to drag its broken-jointed leg. Alfrid claps his hands in glee, a noise that jumps the rest of the soldiers out of their wooden box to lie scattered all over the rug.

“And that would be why I’ll not be tricking you, little brother.” Godric touches one toy soldier after another for Alfrid’s amusement. “I am already well aware of your magic.”

When Godeva exits her bathing chamber a minute later, it is to find Godric sternly ordering the wooden toys to line up properly and ignore the distraction of Alfrid, whose baby-babble is convincing the toys that running around in chaos is the order of the day. “Good afternoon, Mother,” Godric says.

“Good afternoon, Godric.” Godeva tugs up her skirts so that she can sit on the floor next to them. “Thank you for watching over your brother while I was in the privy. I was inside longer than I thought and did not think to leave the door open for Alfrid’s comfort.”

Godric shrugs. “You’re welcome, Mother. I didn’t realize, but I still don’t mind.” He does like small children. Large children. Adults. Truly, there are very few things he actually dislikes. People, animals, objects—they’re all interesting for different reasons, even if some of those reasons are considered odd to others.

Alfrid is considered by their parents to be an easy baby. Godric agrees with them, knowing that they do not say such to insult him. He can sit Alfrid in his lap and tell him a story, and Alfrid does not attempt to escape after mere seconds have passed. Alfrid will listen, enraptured, to the entire tale. To sit and listen to an entire story is not a skill Godric mastered until perhaps last autumn…unless it is history. Godric will sit quite still for the old tales, yet another talent that Laguia discovered where the tutors did not. “He’s my brother, and he is good company.”

Godeva watches as Alfrid claps again. This time the sound knocks over all of the moving soldiers, who wave their arms and legs in dismay. “I could not begin to imagine why.”

Godric thinks on how much easier it would be to place the indignant toys back into their box if he had a wand with which to levitate them. He can do things with his magic that puzzle his parents, though not his grandmother. Lifting things into the air does not seem to be one of those skills. They are little things, strange things, or accidental bursts of magic borne of frustration, but nothing else. He considers himself fortunate enough to have mastered Síðian.

“There is something I wish to tell you in private, before I tell your father,” Godeva says.

He looks at his mother in surprise. Godric may not clearly recall tiny details of what he remembers, but he is _certain_ Godeva has never confided in Godric before Leofric. “Yes?”

“It is because I fear your father may rant or faint. Perhaps both,” Godeva says thoughtfully, a smile hinting at an appearance. “I would rather have an ally prepared for such. Your sister, Leffeda, is carrying her first child.”

Godric stares at his mother. He opens his mouth, but of course, what tumbles out is not diplomatic in the slightest. “Well, that did not take very long.”

“Godric!” At least Godeva is laughing, not chiding him. “They’ve been wed since last summer, and it is now Februarius. Eight months and some days is quite the respectable time between one’s wedding and one’s first child.”

“I suppose,” Godric agrees, though he’d rather not think on it in any further detail. That is his sister, and thus it is awkward. “Do they know…?”

“A son.” Godeva smiles outright. “That will be the other reason for your father’s reaction.”

Leofric does not faint, though Godric did not expect him to. He does immediately send for servants, all of those in the keep who are fit to drink with their Lord, and a _great quantity_ of mead and wine. Godric allows himself a cup of mead, as he is meant to join in the toasting of Leffeda’s health, Astell’s health, the health of their Heir, to yet more Heirs—

That is far too much toasting, and the Receiving Hall quickly becomes far too loud. Godric escapes when it is polite to do so, returning to his chamber. He writes Leffeda a kind letter to congratulate her on her fortune. Godric and his sister are getting better at speaking to each other in a polite manner, even if there is still jesting and points to be had. Perhaps they needed the distance, or perhaps they needed to grow further towards adulthood for this ease to be possible.

There is not a single man in the keep who does not suffer the indignities of too much wine in the morning. Not even the women are immune, though Godeva and others who are nursing babes did not partake beyond the same amount of mead one would drink with a meal.

Godric’s lessons are not canceled, so he mixes a tisane under Laguia’s watchful gaze and takes it to his father when she assures him that it is not poisonous. He does notice that she did not claim it to be well done. It might be ineffective, but at least it is not death in a cup.

Leofric accepts the tisane and looks better for drinking it, though he still speaks in a growl. “Your mother’s timing. I sometimes abhor it.”

“Why?”

“We have received news from the Frankish empire, new though it is,” Leofric says in annoyance. Godric is quite aware of the fact that Leofric only recognizes the new Roman Empire of the west because the Church proclaimed Otto I and Queen Adelheid to be Emperor and Empress of the Romans. Leofric has spoken of his ill feelings regarding the matter often.

“The Emperor Otto has found a bride for his son and Heir,” Leofric says. “They will be wed in Rome in Aprilis. I have long meant to take you on pilgrimage to the ancient city. My Heir should view the basilica and all that is most holy there with his own eyes.”

Rome! That is a very long way from England, further than Godric will have ever traveled in his life. It is also the home of their ancestors on his father’s side, those who were truly Roman rather than this second attempt at restoring the Roman Empire in Europe.

“But—it is already the third week of Februarius. Should we not have departed already to make that sort of pilgrimage?” Godric asks in concern. He has seen the maps, counted out the leagues, and calculated the distance between Griffon’s Door and Rome. It is a very, very long way.

Leofric snorts. “Godric. Your mother and I are magicians. Síðian, foolish boy. We do not need to depart until the first day of Aprilis. We will travel quickly and still have time to attend to matters of both Church and Court. We will not be the only nobles present for this marriage, though the Emperor seems quite intent on keeping away as many of his Frankish nobles as possible.”

“The Eastern Franks are the backbone of the Empire. That makes no sense.” Godric tries to think on Court politics. It is not often a success, but his father does insist he has improved. “Or would they disapprove of the bride?”

Leofric’s smile is that of an injured wolf who has just found easy prey. “She is of Constantinople, what remains of the Roman Empire in the east. King Otto has been warring with the Eastern Romans almost from the start of his reign. Yes, the Saxons and the Franks would object to this marriage, so the Emperor is removing their objections from the proceedings entirely.”

That sounds stupid, but Godric has heard the men and magicians in King Edgar’s court discuss the way Emperor Otto of East Francia excludes his nobility from taking part in the decisions he makes. None of them are happy about it, fearing that the trend will make its way across the water to infect the isle. Godric’s liege claims this will never be so; King Edgar voiced concern that the Emperor has given their mother church too much power within politics, and that their faith does not belong there.

The archbishops often mutter over King Edgar’s belief, but Godric agrees with his king, even if he is too young to speak of his agreement in Court. While he thinks it proper that a king or queen follow the moral path of the Almighty, the church and the governing of a kingdom should not be considered the same. Laguia, Leofric, Godeva, Erneis, and many in Griffon’s Door believe similarly.

 Godric does not realize until after two turns of Síðian take them across the water into Brittany that his father is not the only English noble who means to attend to Rome. Not every eorl of England is present, but Godric identifies several of those who are Magical overlords. There are an equal number of those who are non-magical overlords to England’s eorldoms.

King Edgar has once again sent his Heir, ten-year-old Prince Edward, to act as his representative for the Kingdom of England. Godric wonders at the _politics_ in attempting to get to know your own future king when you are both of an age before deciding that he doesn’t care.

“Hello.”

The prince looks up at him in surprise from the light of what appears to be his own personal fire, shared only with Dunstan, Archbishop of Canterbury. “Hello. Are you lost?”

Godric glances over his shoulder, where the other nobles are waiting for the stragglers to join them before they continue with Síðian. “No, Sire. But you have a very lonely fire.”

“Sit down, fool,” the Archbishop says, but his voice is kind. “I know of you. You are the one with no diplomacy in his head.”

“That _was_ my diplomacy, Your Grace,” Godric says. He considers that point to be his when he notices the prince smiling. “There are very few nobles of my own age making this journey. The others are either too young to attend, or they are too busy acting as men already.”

“Not even my own guard will sit with me.” Edward sighs. “I had friends among them until my brother Edmund died. Now they spend their time fearing that I might be felled by assassins, and keep a stern, silent watch.”

Godric realizes he has yet to properly introduce himself to his own kingdom’s Heir. “I’m Godric. Godric of Grypusdor. My father Leofric is Magical Eorl over Somerset, and my father’s family was once of Rome. He wanted me to see the old city. Why are they worried about assassins, Sire?”

“Greetings to you, Godric,” Edward says after a few moments startled blinking. Perhaps that was too many words at once. “I was born when my father was the king of Mercia, not of England. There are many who feel as if I am not the proper Heir, and that it should be my younger brother Æthelred.”

“But he is…five years old.” Godric hopes he is correct. “You are ten, and attending affairs of state already. Do they want an unprepared king when Danes come at our kingdom from all sides?”

Edward smiles again. Godric has never seen a boy manage to look so bitter. “Perhaps they do.”

“Power can often be found in instability,” Archbishop Dunstan says. “What say you to that, young Godric?”

“My father says that instability also leads to famine and death. I don’t like the idea of either.”

The Archbishop nods. “What is your goal in regards to service of the Crown?”

“Goal?” Godric tries not to look confused. “I am my father’s Heir. My duty is to serve the people of Griffon’s Door, the eorldom of Somerset, and the Kingdom of England. Is that what is meant by goal?”

“You like to say many words at a time,” Edward observes. “I have always been encouraged to say few.”

“I’m told that I can fill a room with words all by myself, but so far none of them have been particularly stupid words.” He is usually on his feet and pacing the room’s length and breadth at the same time, but as the prince seems capable of sitting without fighting the need to move, Godric chooses not to mention it.

“And I suppose your idea of serving the Crown might also include offering company to this kingdom’s Heir?” Archbishop Dunstan asks.

Godric frowns at Dunstan. “Shouldn’t it?”

“I like him,” Edward decides, and that seems to be enough for them both. Godric’s father finds him there an hour later when it is time to depart. Godric and Edward are playing a game of Brigands with pebbles and lines scratched into the earth with sticks while Dunstan tells them both that they are doing it wrong, and he will be playing the next winner to demonstrate properly. Given that Godric has already defeated the Archbishop once, he has no idea how the man can still be making that claim in sincerity.

Godric didn’t realize how much the ancient city of Rome had deteriorated until they are actually standing in its streets. The buildings are not the pristine creations he has seen captured by magic on old scrolls, but brown and worn by age when they are not crumbling outright. He knows the ancient road is meant to be flat and smooth, but a passing cart’s occupants are being viciously bounced by uneven stone. New buildings are littered between the old; they look like stains of blood on a dying body.

When Leofric speaks of guiding his family around the city, introducing them to what he first viewed in his childhood, Godric breaks away long enough to ask if Prince Edward and the Archbishop would like to join them. He is kindly thanked for the invitation, but the Archbishop must already see to other matters of the Church, and Prince Edward is to remain with him.

“I’ll tell you about it later,” Godric promises. Edward offers him a brief smile before disappearing into the crowd with his guardian and their guards.

As his parents escort him around the city while Alfrid sleeps in a sling in their mother’s arms, Godric feels as if he is mourning a loss he didn’t even know of until that morning. The great Baths of Diocletian remain and are used by the city, but the building is not in good condition. Seeing the Baths does at least inform Godric as to what the Roman baths in Baðan would have looked like before they were lost to the marsh.

Some of the obelisk memorials remain, their Latin speaking of Emperors long dead. The Arch of Titus is weathered but its detail still easily visible. The images of plunder taken from Jerusalem do not make him feel any sort of pride. Instead, they make him feel…uncomfortable. He sits on the idea for a few minutes before deciding to speak of it.

 “That is because it is one thing to conquer your enemies, but quite another to rob them of all their earthly possessions,” Godeva murmurs. “Yet still our Crusaders cannot resist plundering and taking what was never theirs.”

Godric nods in recognition of her words. Sometimes he wonders what sort of morals he would hold if he were raised by a mother and father quite unlike Godeva and Leofric, and is glad he never need find out.

Trajan’s Forum has been stripped of its ancient marble, the stone replaced by concrete that is not of Roman make which crumbles easily to the touch. The Forum Romanum is fallen into ruin, half of its surviving stone already consumed by the earth. The Basilica of Maxentius and Constantine does not look damaged on the outside, though Leofric says they are still repairing the interior from a great eorðstyrung that struck over one hundred years ago. The Pantheon has survived best because of its consecration, though it doesn’t appear to be escaping the theft of its original stone, either. The ancient Circus is partly underwater; the rest was demolished and reclaimed by the construction of Saint Peter’s Basilica. The great Colosseum is being used as homes and shops for anyone with the coin to pay, which Godric finds more sacrilegious than the turning of the ancient Pantheon into a church.

“You are very Roman to find ancient losses so upsetting,” Leofric comments.

Godric scowls and tries not to glare at every passing person on the street. “This isn’t right. It’s thousands of years of history! It should be respected.”

“It should, yes.” Leofric takes them to the sad remains of the Temple of Claudius. On the eastern side of the building’s shell, he retrieves his wand and taps the bricks in rapid succession. The bricks slide apart, revealing a hidden door. “Fortunately, there are still those who feel as you do.”

Godric gapes at the inside of the great building, which is beautiful and intact, not the shell others see when they pass by. The original marble of differing colors, floor to ceiling, has been polished to an incredible glow. It does not take many torches to create a bright, brilliant light inside the Temple. The busts of emperors, empresses, generals, and gods line the walls. A great winged nike in the tradition of Greece is upon the temple altar, though she is dressed as a Roman legionnaire. She holds a wand in one hand and a shield in the other.

“This is where the magic of ancient Rome still remains,” Leofric tells them. He leads the way out of the Temple’s western exit to reveal streets that are nothing like those they strode over mere minutes ago. “There is not much left of the spaces magicians once carved out for themselves, and the scól is long lost, but this still remains.”

There are many people crowding the streets, representing such a wide range of kingdoms upon the earth that Godric stares at them. It is rude, but he cannot help it. He sees skin that is varying shades of ivory, people with strange, almond-shaped eyes wearing flowing robes of delicate silk. There are the glittering, embroidered robes and tunics in the fashion of Constantinople, worn by those with Greek features. Magicians still wearing the dress of the ancient Romans are a common sight. There are men and women whose skin appears to be the same blackness as the night sky. Aubri always told Godric that it was so, but he did not think Aubri meant it quite so literally. There are Christians, Moors, and Hebrew, and so many others of such odd and differing faiths that Godric has no hope of naming them all.

“They’re not fighting,” Godric whispers. “None of them are.”

“None will do so here,” Godeva replies. “Not if they know what’s good for them. This place is sacred, accessible only by a temple of the ancients. There are very specific rules for those who dwell here, Godric. If you violate them, the streets will reject you. You would find yourself very lost somewhere beyond the Aurelian Wall.”

“What are the rules, Mother?”

“You will not lift a hand against another unless it is in your defence. You will not lie. You will not cheat. You will not steal. You will not say unkind words to others, no matter the temptation you face.”

“I don’t do any of those things, anyway!” Godric protests, and then frowns. “Well, perhaps the unkind words, but usually another has been the first to speak cruelly.”

Godeva’s lips turn up in a faint smirk. “Then you should have no difficulty holding your tongue.”

Their lodgings are not with the other non-magical nobles of England. Instead, they are granted an upstairs set of interconnected chambers in a villa that still looks perfectly Roman from ceiling to floor. Godric adores every inch of it.

Leofric does allow Godric his freedom, but often he also makes Godric join him as they meet with other politicians that have made their way to Rome. Some have come for the marriage of the Emperor’s son and Heir, hearing it through fortunate means. Others are present because it is Rome, and it has never stopped drawing forth the curious from other lands. Godric is enjoying his time in Rome so much that he forgets to fidget even when forced to sit still and attempt to be diplomatic.

Godeva takes Godric to those who deal in fabrics and silks from the lands far to the East. She has him fitted for a silk tunic with woven patterns of scarlet, gold, and blue. It is lovely, but he can’t see himself fighting in it.

“For the wedding, my small warrior,” Godeva says with a hint of laughter. “One does not wear wool or linen to an Imperial wedding, even if we are only to observe from the street.”

“Oh.” Godric submits to the necessity of gaining a long silk blue shirt; the woven tunic is worn over it, and at least the belt is proper. The red silk hose he desperately wants to never wear again, even if they are far less stiff than new ones made from dyed linen. He feels underdressed. “The colors are very…bright.”

“It is fashionable,” an ivory-skinned woman of the East says in Latin. She seems amused by his discomfort. Her husband, who looks to be Greek, exchanges words with her in an entirely unfamiliar language before presenting Godric with a second outfit, magically tailored to fit. This one is simpler. The long shirt is a deep red, as is the hose. The tunic’s dominant color is the scarlet of Godric’s house, though there are still tiny woven patterns of black and gold nearly hidden in the fabric.

Godric tilts his head at the silver mirror. The scarlet should clash with his dark red hair, but it does not. The color makes his eyes shine. “This. That’s what I want to wear for the rest of my life.”

“You are going to outgrow those clothes,” Godeva reminds him in a wry voice. “The hems can only be let out so often before there is no fabric left.”

“Then I will ask another to create more.” He studies his reflection a bit more. “But perhaps they will be leather.” Leather is durable. He may be a magician in truth one day, but he has no plans to give up on dagger, sword, sling, or bow. He thinks he might actually prefer linen that has been softened by washing and wear rather than silk, but this is far more comfortable than stiff new garments.

Godric remembers his manners before they depart. “Thank you for the clothes, and thank you for introducing me to a color I am very fond of. Oh, and you are very beautiful,” he adds, because the seamstress is exactly that.

She smiles at him, which makes her eyes narrow in a way that is not warning, but reveals a merry humor. “You are young to flirt so, Lord Godric.”

Flirt? “I spoke nothing less than the truth,” Godric replies, baffled. Then Godeva bustles him away from the tailor’s shop while laughing.

He was not flirting!

Was he?

Godric finds the wandmakers on his own. He forces himself to observe further before simply racing over to gaze at their fine wands on display, all of them resting on snow-white velvet. They are twin women with Greek skin, dark hair, and Roman aquiline profiles. They look almost identical, especially dressed in the same sky blue gowns, but one woman is perhaps an inch shorter with blue eyes. The other has green eyes and a tiny collection of freckles on her nose.

“Is there a reason you stare at us from across the street?” the green-eyed wandmaker asks without looking up from the feather she is trimming. Her sister is regarding several long branches of unfamiliar wood.

“If I had been here last year, I wouldn’t have noticed that your eyes are different colors,” Godric says. He has definitely used up all of his diplomacy for the day. “Hello.”

“Come over here,” the blue-eyed twin says, smiling at Godric. “Are you seeking a wand?”

Godric tries not to grimace. “For a while now, but it hasn’t been right.”

“Come in, behind the table. Sit down with us,” she invites. Their names are Karinna and Kallisto, and while they are Roman, as Godric suspected, they are not from Rome, but Constantinople.

“It is a member of our royal family to be wed. There are many of us here to see that it is done well, though we are not among the honored guests,” Kallisto says, picking up a branch of very dark red wood. “Hold this.”

Godric does, feeling a magical tingle beneath his fingers, before Karinna all but snatches it out of his hand. “What—did I do something wrong?”

Karinna is staring at him with her head cocked to one side. “Sister, look again.”

He tries not to fidget under the twins’ combined stare. “What? What have I done?”

“Nothing. Well, not yet.” Karinna smiles in a way that is as reassuring as it is quietly chilling. “You will do many things, I think.”

“We cannot give you a wand because your wand is not here,” Kallisto adds. “Your wand must be made by your own hands. A wand made by another will never work properly for you.”

“But I’m not a wandmaker!” Godric feels utterly disheartened. If he is meant to make his own wand, it will be a long time before he owns one.

“Trust me, child.” Karinna picks up another pale branch, but does not hand it to him. “When magic speaks, such things do not matter at all.”

Kallisto brushes the golden feather she holds along Godric’s nose. “You will be eleven, I think. You are not yet ten now. Have patience before that time, and then have patience after. You will be in desperate need of it.”

Godric hears others say that a _lot_ , but this seems different. “What does that mean, Wandmaker Kallisto?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Kallisto confides with a wide grin. “Divination does not generally provide such easy answers. Enjoy your time in Rome, child.”

“Oh—and you as well,” Godric adds, remembering that they are travelers here, too. “Thank you for your company.” The wandmaker twins are a bit odd, but entirely likeable. He hopes to see them again.

It is three days before the Imperial wedding when Godric hears the familiar language of Gaoidhealg, the first time he has heard it in any part of Rome. The accent is a bit different from the way Meraud and Edytha speak, but he knows those words.

Leofric is away at a gathering near Saint Peter’s basilica, which Godric will not glimpse for the first time until dusk. A tour is being arranged for those of noble blood to see its hallowed grounds before the necessities of marriage make the basilica inaccessible to all but those chosen to witness the ceremony. Godeva is taking an afternoon nap with Alfrid in their upstairs chambers. He is in the safety of the magical streets of Rome, so Godric decides to seek out the speakers of Gaoidhealg.

There is a row along the next street devoted to food vendors who still sell their wares in the same manner as the ancients. There are tables with awnings for shade provided to those who partake. Seated at one such table is a man, a woman, and a boy. The man and woman have finished eating, but the boy is determinedly picking at a bowl filled with slices of odd fruit and berries.

Godric studies them while pretending to be enamored of some truly ugly glass beads laid out on a table on the other side of the street. Their clothes are all made from finely woven linen, not a hint of wool or silk to be seen. He wonders if they’ve seen silk, or if they, like Godric, prefer good linen. The fabrics are dyed rich colors in the literal sense, as it takes quite a bit of coin to afford some of those shades of blue and gold. It’s the fine detail and gold threading in the embroidery at hem, sleeve, and collar that tells Godric these people are either wealthy traders or wealthy nobility.

Their skin is like Edytha and Meraud’s, pale with reddened cheeks, and they all have blue eyes. The man appears far older than the woman at his side. There are noticeable lines on his face, and his brown hair is the odd mud color that comes with acquiring too much grey. The woman might be of an age with Godric’s sister. Her hair is the twisting red-gold curls of the Norræn…or those who were once of Dál Riata, the Gaeil who interbred with the Danes. The boy is much younger, perhaps barely grown beyond infancy. Despite sharing his father’s brown hair, he looks quite a bit like his mother.

There is a long period of silence before any conversation resumes. “I am not certain it was wise to bring him here when there is to be an Imperial wedding,” the woman says. “There will be many people here, and the weather warms. I have not forgotten the tales of strange diseases that my kin once shared after their travels.”

The man smiles, making his aged face seem kind rather than cold and worn. “My love, the pilgrimage to Rome is made so often that if your kin’s fears were true, all of Europe would be dead or dying. Our son will be fine and well.”

“I do trust that your favored magician has left us in safety,” the woman replies, glancing at the small boy. He seems oblivious to their words, more concerned with the berry-filled dessert in his trencher. “Faramund would never see us left in danger. But beyond this place, to dare the streets before the basilica itself?”

“It isn’t that bad,” Godric decides to say in Gaoidhealg. “We’re all meant to tour the basilica in privacy this evening. If you are nobility of the north, there is no reason why you cannot be included.”

All three of his northern neighbors turn to stare at him. The boy even forgets about his berries. “And who might you be, to offer such an invitation so casually?” the man asks.

Godric crosses the street, smiling. “I’m sorry. I have a blunt tongue and didn’t mean offence, though I am very good at crafting offence by accident. My name is Godric of Grypusdor. I am of Somerset in the Kingdom of England.” He thinks on it, judges the embroidery again, and offers them a bow of one noble to another, not that of a noble to a king. His tutor for Courtly etiquette might literally have torn out his own hair in the process, but Godric did learn the different ways of bowing, dancing, signaling approval, disapproval, and the politest way to challenge another to a duel so as not to involve others.

There is also a far less polite way, but Erneis and Godric are both of the opinion that if it’s to go that far, there should be no challenge at all, just a dead idiot on the floor. Leofric sometimes despairs of them both, but Godric has promised not to be “less polite” unless their liege is in danger.

“A southern cousin, then.” The woman smiles. “And one who speaks our tongue, no less. We’ve heard no one speak proper Gaoidhealg since our arrival, young Godric.”

“I am Ruaidrí mac Domnall, Mormær of Muireb,” the man introduces himself. Godric does not squeak, even though he suddenly feels quite the ignorant idiot. “This is my wife, Queen Eilénóra Járnknésdottir. Our son, Prince Findláech mac Ruaidrí.”

“A pleasure to greet you, Sire,” Godric says. “Er, my father is Leofric of Griffon’s Door, Magical Eorl over Somerset. He would not be pleased if I did not give you the proper means to locate our holdings.”

“Are you a magician?” Findláech pipes up. He is definitely still a younger child, but his words are too well spoken for the boy to be considered an infant. Godric guesses him to be five years old at most.

Godric nods. “I am. Well, I will be. I…” He bites his lip. “I am still learning. I suspect I will be learning for a long while yet.”

“As is proper for anyone who truly wishes to educate themselves,” Queen Eilénóra says. “Come sit with us, young Lord Godric. We have few opportunities to speak with those who live as far to the south of our island as you do. I’m quite curious to know who taught you to speak Gaoidhealg.”

No matter the kingdom, one does not ignore a royal invitation. Godric sits on the wooden bench next to Findláech, who is staring up at Godric in open admiration. “You might want to finish eating that before the flies come to steal it,” Godric advises him. He said the very same to Alfrid earlier that day.

Findláech nods. “All right!” he agrees, and at least he does try. He also shares, but Godric doesn’t mind; this food is still less mashed than Alfrid’s offerings. Godric isn’t certain what he’s eating, but it tastes good and neither of them or dying, so it can’t be that bad.

Godric learns that the king of Muireb has been ruling since his father, Mormær Domnall mac Morggán, died seven years ago. “A battle, wasn’t it?” Godric hasn’t managed to memorize the names of every king, queen, and child born to every royal family in the isles—there are too many, they keep killing each other off, and he considers it an exercise in futility—but he does remember the war that secured Muireb’s northern boundary against the Orkney Eorldom.

“The last battle of the Skull-Splitter.” King Ruaidrí has a faint smile of pride on his face. “We didn’t face each other, but perhaps it was for the best. He died soon afterwards as age caught up to him at last. There was a bit of contention for Thorfinn Einarsson’s holdings, but his son Hlodvir Thorfinsson is now Jarl of the Orkney Eorldom.”

“Eorl Hlodvir has a son your age named Sigurd,” Queen Eilénóra says. “He is Hlodvir’s eldest, and given that his wife has now given birth to naught but girls, will likely be the next Eorl of Orkney after Hlodvir.”

“That is interesting to know.” Godric does try to remember who will be inheriting each kingdom, as he might need to charm them one day. Or kill them, as Erneis often warns, but he’d very much prefer the former. “I wonder if he would be open to speaking to me.”

“That, I cannot tell you,” King Ruaidrí admits. “Sigurd is still young enough that no one has encountered him during a battle, and he was not old enough to speak at a meeting I held with Hlodvir in Caithness.”

Queen Eilénóra leans forward. “We heard nothing of any meeting that would allow us to see the basilica. Are you certain this is so?”

Godric nods. “My father is one of those making certain it is arranged, and the Archbishop of Canterbury is another. If anyone tries to insist that it is only for the English, I will tell them that _I_ invited you, and you are my guests, and they will have to behave themselves.”

The king laughs, long and loud. “You are certainly a bold one, Lord Godric. We would be happy to join you this evening, though I hope it does not cause strife between my kingdom and yours.”

“If it causes strife, then it is for stupid reasons,” Godric says. King Ruaidrí laughs again.

Godric decides the wisest course of action is to bring this non-magical royal family to meet his mother and view his infant brother. He even introduces the Lady Godeva properly to the Mormær of Muireb, his queen, and his Heir.

Queen Eilénóra immediately wins over Godric’s mother by going straight to Alfrid to coo over him. “Oh, such a darling!” she proclaims. “I do want another child, but we’ve had no fortune in that regard since I bore Findláech four years ago.”

Godeva lifts Alfrid from his magical enclosure and gently places him in the queen’s arms. “I am certain your fortune will change, Your Majesty.”

“Please. You are not my vassal. I am Eilénóra,” the queen insists. “I am happy to greet our southern neighbors, though my husband has some difficulties with speaking the West Saxon tongue.”

“My apologies,” King Ruaidrí offers, and Godric translates for him. “And my wife is correct. You are not a vassal of my kingdom. I am Ruaidrí to you, to your husband, and to your son.”

When he returns, Leofric seems bemused to discover that a royal family is visiting their chambers. When he hears the names of the rulers of Muireb, his expression brightens. Godric and Eilénóra spend a bit of time translating for everyone. Godric learns that his father has quite a bit of respect for Muireb, its current rulers, and even Ruaidrí’s father Domnall mac Morggán.

“If the others protest your presence this evening, I will stand for you,” Leofric promises. “Even King Edgar of England respects your kingdom. It is Alba who rouses most of England’s ire.”

“They do that,” Ruaidrí says in a dry tone. “King Amlaíb does not look to be much of an improvement on his recent predecessor. He and King Dyfnwal of Strathclyde squabble with each other so often I fear they will kill each other before long, and then there will be yet another squabble for their respective thrones.”

There is a tense moment that evening outside the entrance to the basilica. Godric hadn’t realized that the negotiation had become about the admittance of an entirely English group. Godric makes certain to shove his way forward and boldly informs Dunstan of Canterbury that the king, queen, and prince of the Kingdom of Muireb are his guests.

The Archbishop raises both eyebrows. “Very well. His Highness King Edgar has no quarrel with King Ruaidrí and his family. Welcome and join us, King and Queen of Muireb.”

Godric sticks close to Findláech, the smallest child in the group aside from himself. With his parents immediately embroiled in politely voiced politics, it seems like the proper thing to do. Findláech latches onto Godric’s hand and refuses to let go as they cross the threshold of St. Peter’s Basilica to stand in its white stone atrium, the Garden of Paradise. It is dusk, so the torches are lit, but there is no mistaking the beauty that went into the construction of the atrium and its surrounding walls of many arches.

Findláech takes his finger out of his mouth. “It’s pretty.”

“It truly is.” Godric reaches out to rest his hand on the nearest stone archway. It almost seems to resonate beneath his hand, the blessings of so many captured in marble. Findláech mirrors him and touches the stone, too. “Does it not seem holy?”

The boy frowns for a moment. “It’s a rock. It doesn’t have a hole in it,” he says, and Godric has to stifle his laughter lest he disturb the others.

“Not that sort of hole. Holy. Blessed by God at the hands of the priests,” Godric tries to explain. “Is that better?”

Findláech removes his hand from the stone. “Why would the priests want to bless a rock?”

“Because…” Godric thinks on it. “It’s an important building, so they honor the stone it’s made of.”

“Oh. All right, then.”

It isn’t long before Findláech gets tired. Godric solves this difficulty by hoisting Findláech up to sit on his shoulders. Even with Godric’s unnatural height at his age, Findláech is still short enough that they pass through archways and doorways easily.

Then they walk into the church itself, the one Emperor Constantine himself ordered built in the shape of the holy cross over the grave of Saint Peter, Apostle and Martyr. Godric finds himself holding his breath. He has never beheld such a large building in his life. Even the Colosseum did not evoke this feeling in his breast.

“It’s very, very big,” is Findláech’s opinion.

“It is that,” Godric agrees in a faint voice. “There is room for thousands to stand within this church.” He answers Findláech’s questions as they walk through the massive basilica, but his eyes are roving about. He may never have opportunity to return here. He will memorize and recall even the slightest detail of the columns, the ceiling so far overhead, the nave, the aisles, and the altar that stands over the grave of Saint Peter.

After the tour of the basilica, the wedding on fourteenth Aprilis feels almost an afterthought. Godric doubts it is such for those inside the basilica witnessing the marriage, or for those being married. However, they are in the street, standing in the crowds of Roman citizens and travelers who are standing here to pay tribute to a new Empress of Rome, even if she will only be named Empress Consort.

Findláech is again on Godric’s shoulders, else he would see nothing of the proceedings. He also serves as an excellent lookout. “There they are!” he chirps, pointing.

Godric and Findláech get exactly one glimpse of the newly married Imperial couple before others block their view again. “They look very scared,” Findláech says.

“Perhaps they’re nervous,” Godric counters. There are thousands of people in the basilica and thousands more in the streets. He would certainly be considering the idea of nervousness if he were in their place.

“They were both raised to know this sort of attention. I think it is far more likely that young Emperor Otto II and his new wife Empress Theophanu have only now met for the first time,” Eilénóra says in complete disapproval.

“Only today?” Godric fails to contain his horror at the very idea. “I would not wish to marry someone I’d just met!”

Findláech shakes his head wildly, making him rock back and forth on Godric’s shoulders. “Not me, not me! Don’t want to get married at all!”

“You’re four years of age, Findláech. You’ve time to realize that you and I have little choice in the matter,” Godric mutters under his breath. “Do you really think they only met today?” he asks his father, and realizes he is thinking of Sedemai. Godric wonders if she would welcome visits or letters.

Leofric nods. “It would surprise me not at all.” 


	3. Muireb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You are not to die. Not you. You are my brother, too.”
> 
> “And you will always be mine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See Notes at the end for a Warning/Spoiler. If you don't necessarily want spoilers, then I'll say: keep in mind the time period this story is set in, and that the author made herself sad.
> 
> All hail cheer-readers @norcumi & @jabberwockypie, and beta @sanerontheinside!
> 
> (At the bottom of the chapter is a link of music for the chapter. If you want to start out that way.)

Findláech is a clinging leech of a child. Godric doesn’t mind the clinging, but the boy’s presence on Godric’s back seems to amuse Prince Edward. “You have a moving growth upon you. It seems to have originated in Rome,” Edward says, smiling.

Godric grins back. “He has not yet been told that princes aren’t supposed to be clingy,” he says, and introduces Edward to his royal cousin in the north.

Edward holds out his hand and very solemnly accepts Findláech’s tiny arm in a solemn grip. “It is good to meet you, Prince Findláech.”

“You aren’t going to keep calling me prince, are you?” Findláech asks plaintively. “I don’t want my friends calling me that!”

“How very fortunate for you,” Edward responds. His words are always so carefully chosen and precise; Godric wonders how he has the patience for it. “I do not much care for it either, Findláech.”

Then they settle in while waiting for the adults to finish gathering on Brittany’s coast. Dunstan seems to be occupied, so they are literally surrounded by a ring of the royal guard. Godric spends the time telling Edward of the magical areas of Rome while they both attempt to teach Findláech how to play Brigands.

Findláech catches on so quickly that he begins to win every game. “How?” Edward asks, astonished.

“I just _look_ at it!” Findláech protests. “You’re just not looking the right way!”

Godric slaps himself in the face. “He’s right. We’re not. My father and grandfather have been trying to teach me of exactly what a _four-year-old boy_ has already mastered.”

“Natural talent,” Edward says sagely. “Findláech, you are quite fortunate, and will be a credit to the defence of your kingdom.”

Findláech lights up as if someone sat him atop a bonfire. “You think so?”

“You’re certainly handing us our arses,” Edward mutters under his breath. “Godric, do you know of another game? I’d rather not spend the rest of the hour suffering constant losses.”

Godric nods and introduces them to Tafl, the King’s Fist. He creates the pieces by tapping the twelve defenders with his finger so that the pebbles turn red, leaving the other twenty-four attackers a dull earthen grey. The king is a much larger stone, also encouraged to turn red.

“We don’t have this at Court. There are too many who wish to have nothing to do with the Danes at all, though they accept Danish gold readily enough,” Edward comments. He is doing his best not to lose his king on the first round, but Godric has been trounced by his father often enough now that he will best his liege easily. He considers pretending a lack of skill and decides that Edward might consider it an insult.

Rome has been very good for Godric’s passing acquaintance with diplomacy.

“That seems foolish,” Godric says. “Even if we have concerns about new invaders, there are Norræn men who already live on this aisle.”

When their parents come to collect them for the journey of Síðian across the water, they find Findláech in the midst of trouncing Godric while Godric stares at him. “Are you certain you’re not cheating?”

Findláech scowls back. “You just don’t play well,” he says, and Edward starts laughing. It’s the first time Godric has heard the prince laugh. He wonders what sort of home Edward lives in where laughter is such a rare sound. Godric knows he’s heard laughter in Court…but perhaps Edward is simply not inclined towards easy humor.

Edward sees them off with perfect manners, though Godric hates to leave him behind. Without their company, the prince is once again sitting alone within a ring of guards. “I don’t like it,” he says.

Leofric glances back over his shoulder at their kingdom’s Heir. “Dunstan is a good man. He will be protected.”

“That isn’t what I meant,” Godric says, but then there is Síðian. When they arrive on the ocean-bound banks of the Tamesis, he realizes he doesn’t know how to explain his meaning at all. He is also promptly distracted by a king.

“Your father and I have spoken while you kept company with my son.” Ruaidrí smiles at Godric. “We are in agreement that you both should see more of Briton. Given that you are already prepared for a journey away from home, he has asked that my kingdom host your presence in Inverness.”

Godric’s eyes widen. Inverness isn’t Rome, but it is also much further north than Baðan. “Your Highness is most kind,” he remembers to say. “Then Findláech will be visiting Griffon’s Door?” Findláech seems a bit young for such a visit, but he is an intelligent child. Godric enjoys his company, even if Findláech is a lout who thrashes Godric at Brigands and Tafl.

“He will,” Eilénóra confirms. Findláech again brightens like a bonfire and bounces his way into his mother’s arms. Godric will be in the north from the first day of summer tomorrow through the first day of December. Findláech will not travel in the winter, but it is thought that the next lencten through the beginning of hærfest will be agreeable, equinox to equinox.

Godric goes to his parents when they pull him a slight distance apart. “I will behave myself,” he says before they can offer the reminder.

“You did very well in Rome, else I would not consider this for another year,” Leofric replies. “His Highness and I have been discussing trade between our eorldom and Muireb. They often see goods from the northern Danes that are not brought to our southern shores. I am hoping that when King Edgar sees the results of such an agreement, he will open London to further trade with distant kingdoms.”

Godric had been wondering why England seems to be lacking silk when Rome is rich with it. Even those few Eastern Franks he saw in the streets were wearing nothing but wool and linen. He has no idea how they wore such thick wool robes in the heat of a Roman lencten without dying of it.

Alfrid is fussing, so Godric’s goodbye to his little brother is limited to words said to Alfrid as he rests over their mother’s shoulder. “Do you think he’s ill?” Godric asks, noticing the flush on his brother’s cheeks. Magicians do not often get ill, but it does occur.

“I believe he is growing more teeth. It’s a process none of us like very much until we’re older.” He can hear the smile in Godeva’s voice, its existence proven when he walks back around to face her. “You do know that if you feel the need, you can magically return to Griffon’s Door whenever you wish, yes? You need not remain the full six months.”

“I know.” Godric says farewell to his parents and then joins the king and queen of Muireb, along with their highest-ranked Court magicians, for the journey north. They travel in leaps of Síðian that are considered to be short, but for Godric, each one is a drastic change in what he is used to seeing on the island. First there is Grantebrycge, then Nottingham, and then Jórvík, all held by Norræn eorls and kings until the last battle in 954 against Eiríkr Haraldsson the Bloodaxe. The longest distance they travel is from Jórvík to Eidyn Buhr, which makes Godric feel like his insides have been wrung out and slung over a wall to dry in the sun.

“We cannot stay long without accidentally giving offence,” Eilénóra tells Godric.

“That is because he is an idiot,” Faramund mutters.  

Godric nods. He’s a bit distracted by how much colder it is in Eidyn Buhr, rather like Martius in Griffon’s Door instead of the verge of summer. “I’ve been granted that impression, yes.”

The last place they go before Inverness is Obar Dheathain on the coast. Godric is entranced by the new scenery. Not only are there rolling hills bearing such a vibrant _green_ they look to have been painted that way, but there are still Picts living in this land. It’s the first time Godric has ever seen folk from those ancient tribes. They have graceful tattoos on their faces and arms, dress in leathers and linens, and wear enough gold jewelry to choke an ox. Their language is entirely unfamiliar, nothing like English, Norse, or Gaoidhealg at all. It doesn’t even sound like Cumbric or Breton.

Then, finally, they are in Inverness in Muireb, the seat of the kingdom of the north. Godric promptly tries to look everywhere at once while Findláech also tries to point at and name everything in sight. There is the River Nis, which forms a great loch further upstream. Downstream a short distance is the ocean, which grants Inverness its power as a port—though Eidyn Buhr is gaining popularity with the traders, much to everyone’s frustration. A village and several small keeps dot the landscape on the eastern side of the river. On a high hill overlooking them all is not a keep, but a true castle. It has proper defensible towers on each of its four corners, ramparts over which both guards and others walk, and is large enough to compete with the castle in London. It has a high stone wall surrounding it on three sides, while the western wall relies on the River Nis for its protection.

“Not Inverness,” Findláech finally exclaims in childish frustration. He draws out the word so every syllable is audible. “Inbhir Nis!”

“Oh! My apologies, then,” Godric says, but he is already distracted by the name. By sharing the name with the river, it means the word he has been mistaking as Inverness means _mouth of the river_ ; thus the city got its name from the water. Nis is not a word of the Gaeil, but Inbhir is. At one time, the peoples here must have adopted one another.

Inbhir Nis, like the last village on the ocean, is surrounded by intense green. There are still hills, but these seem less gentle, more formidable, as if threatening to become mountains at any moment. When he later discovers that Inbhir Nis is in a valley surrounded by the Muireb Hielands, Godric realizes that he was correct.

At least Inbhir Nis has a warmer clime than Eidyn Buhr. In both senses of the word.

If it were not for Findláech’s grip on his hand, they would have lost Godric in the markets leading the way to the castle. There is simply too much to look at: too many northern Danes to observe, not quite like their southern cousins at all; Picts are common; there are Britons from Strathclyde; there are Gaeils from the western isle of Éireann, along with Gaeils who have been in Muireb for generations; weapons on display; food of odd types, and strange animal skins hanging for sale—

“God-riiiiiiic,” Findláech whines, pulling Godric along behind him. “Were you this bad in Rome?”

“Yes,” Godric admits cheerfully. “But there was only one exit from the magical section of Rome, so Mother and Father were not concerned I would lose my way and tumble into the river.”

“Please do _not_ tumble into the river,” Eilénóra says, glancing at him over her shoulder. “We have proper baths in the castle.”

Godric stops smiling. “But I’ve just had a bath!” Leofric took him to the public baths in Rome three days ago. Godeva meant to accompany them with Alfrid, but was not feeling well and chose to remain within the boundaries of the magical streets.

He loves the castle and its four storeys of height below the towers, built of plundered Roman blocks and shaped red stone, but he is too distracted by the notion of another bath to appreciate it that first evening. Griffon’s Door taught him to value cleanliness, but it is common to submerge in a bath only once a week. The castle is right on the banks of the river, with water piped in through magical means, and thus the families dwelling within bathe _every single evening_. Godric thinks this is complete madness and says so, but is defeated by logic: if they are so close to water, should they not take advantage of it?

“I’ll go home coddled,” Godric tries. The water piped into the keep is for drinking and cooking. Baths are filled one a week so as to not overtax the well.

“Then coddled you shall be,” the queen insists. Godric gives in to the inevitable while Findláech giggles at him for being ridiculous. He is not ridiculous. This is just an excessive number of baths. He barely tolerates the weekly plunge as it is.

He doesn’t know, not then. He won’t find out until years later when he meets a boy with a bit more knowledge in the way of illness, but that steamy bath in Rome and the immediate bath before dinner in the royal castle of Inbhir Nis probably saved his life. It most certainly saved the non-magical royal family, who would have been in far greater danger.

The first hint he has that something is wrong in the south isn’t a hint at all. It’s Leofric’s Patronus arriving at the end of his first week in Inbhir Nis, just before Godric begins readying for bed. That in itself is often a delayed adventure. Godric has his own chamber as an honored guest, but Findláech is a sneak who knows how to nudge the doors just off-kilter enough to slide in a flat stick of wood and lift the latch.

The mastiff Patronus opens its mouth and his father’s voice emerges, which causes Godric to jump. He might have forgotten the guardian spirits were capable of that. “Godric, if you or anyone else in King Ruaidrí’s company is ill, write and tell me at once. Send the message by a bird, one that will not make another distraught if it cannot return.” Then the Patronus vanishes.

Godric has learned the castle well in the last week. He’ll ask the king and queen last, but first there is an immediate and useful source to exploit.

Healer Waðsige looks up in alarm as Godric bursts into her office without knocking. “What has happened? Is there injury?”

He shakes his head, trying to get his breath back. The royal apartments are on the fourth storey, and Waðsige dwells belowground. “No injury. I’ve heard word from home. Is anyone in the castle ill?”

Waðsige does not pause to ask questions. She retrieves her wand and casts a charm that lights up the air in vague approximation of the castle. “No,” she says after a moment. “Nothing beyond the usual illnesses I would expect, and they are minor with our competent healers about.”

“No one from Rome has reported any ill feeling at all?” Godric asks. “None?”

Waðsige says there has been none, but insists on accompanying him as he finishes the rounds he must make. Every magician who accompanied the royal family to Rome is subjected to her healer’s magic. None are ill, though one has taken a chill and is rather insistent on sneezing all over every surface in his quarters. Waðsige chastises him into using a proper handkerchief instead of sneezing like an English barbarian before remembering the company she keeps.

“Don’t concern yourself. You’re correct, anyway,” Godric says.

Prince Findláech, King Ruaidrí, and Queen Eilénóra are granted careful examinations by Healer Waðsige before she pronounces them to be in excellent health. Then, before Godric recognizes her intent, he is subjected to the same. He sighs and glances up at the ceiling. Charms always seem itchy when they are used directly upon his body. Even the healer seems confused by the results.

“You are not ill, but you did something to interfere with my magic,” Waðsige says.

“I did nothing. It’s just…me,” Godric explains. It isn’t a very good explanation, so he tries again. “Some aspects of magic that I shouldn’t be able to perform come easily. Others do not. Oh, and I’m a Door Guardian.”

Waðsige is placated by the final thing he says. “That may well prove to be the difficulty. Now what is it that you have heard from your home in England, Lord Godric?”

When he explains, Waðsige grows silent and grim. “Allow me to go, Sire,” she requests of Ruaidrí. “I know the lands in the south, and if there is a spreading illness, the healers of Lord Godric’s keep may need another wand to assist them. It will also save us the loss of a messenger bird.”

Ruaidrí gives her a grave nod. “Do not lose yourself to whatever has befallen Lord Godric’s family keep, Healer. We need you here in the north when winter comes.”

“Please tell my father to—please tell him to continue to tell me of what is happening,” Godric asks her. “My brother did not look to be in good spirits when we parted last week, and he will not be two years of age until December. Oh, and please give my love to my family.”

Waðsige places her hand on Godric’s head, as if in strange benediction. “I will pass on your messages, Lord Godric. Can you cast a Patronus Charm to allow him to know I will be arriving?”

Godric hates the dull blush that spreads across his cheeks. “I cannot yet do that, Healer. It will have to be your own, but if you seek particular assurance of safety…” He thinks on it. “My mother is one of three sisters born in Brittany, in the House of Cloister’s Mark.” While his mother’s House is no secret, it is not commonly known in Brittany, and even less is spoken of her family in England. There are still a few foolish nobles in King Edgar’s Court who castigate Leofric for taking a bride who is not English.

“Thank you,” Waðsige says. She casts her Patronus, a beautiful if entirely foreign type of feline. “I will go pack for my stay in the south. By the time I finish, I judge it will be safe for me to depart.”

“What if a sign of illness shows itself here?” Eilénóra asks, drawing Findláech close to her.

Waðsige bows her head at Godric. “Given what Lord Godric has said of his brother, I believe we would already know if it were so. Farewell.”

Godric can’t sleep, not after that. He goes downstairs, leaves the castle, and crosses the stone courtyard to enter the church built just east of the castle. It is within the protection of the stone wall, but its colored and lead-framed glass windows are positioned perfectly to capture the sunlight and beautify the church during morning prayers. He sits down on a wooden bench placed near the altar. The cross hanging over it is dark wood that has been edged in bronze. He has seen too many crosses composed of solid gold, and that seems wrong to him. One can honor another’s sacrifice and treasure it without turning it into literal treasure. Wood and bronze seem appropriately humble.

Leofric’s Patronus returns after a watchman on the tower has cried the midnight hour. “I should not tell you, but I will not lie to you, either. You are my son and have earned my respect.” Godric bites back a smile. That is high praise from his father.

“Your brother and your mother both are quite ill. It is a spreading illness that has taken hold of several within the keep. I believe that those who are ill were separated from the rest of the household before worse could result. The healer sent by Ruaidrí agrees with me, though suggests everyone retain their caution. There is nothing more I know.”

The Patronus vanishes, but before Godric has time to truly contemplate his father’s words, it returns. “I cannot send for you, not when to do so may risk both Heirs to Griffon’s Door. Your mother and your brother know you love them already. Send your prayers instead, as there are many who need them.

“Stay in the north, Godric. I am ordering you to do so.”

Godric sucks in a startled breath. His father has given him many words of advice and stern warnings, but that is the very first time he has issued an _order_. He is probably right to do so. Once the shock went away, no doubt Godric would have attempted to plan his route back to Griffon’s Door by Síðian.

He doesn’t sleep at all that night. He is still sitting on the bench when the monks enter the church to ready the candles for morning prayers. When he confesses the reason for his presence, Arthfæl and Bradán sit with Godric in prayer, long chants that echo through the stone church and vibrate the stone beneath their feet. He remains through the regular morning prayers, not certain he feels comforted, but grateful that the monks made such a kind gesture.

“Your father is correct,” Eilénóra says in a gentle tone when Godric relays his father’s midnight message. “And you are aware that this is so, else you wouldn’t have confided in me.”

“I am. I still believe I should be with my brother, but I understand my father’s fears.” Godric glances at her. “Do you know my mother’s age?”

Eilénóra shakes her head. “I know she is older than myself. I was born in the year of 952.”

Godric takes a moment to congratulate himself for guessing correctly. The queen is only a year older than his sister, but she carries herself with greater maturity and wisdom. “My mother appears to still be young and beautiful. Many guess her to be thirty, but she was born in the year 917, Your Majesty.”

“Fifty-five years of age. I would never have thought—but do not magicians have longer opportunities to bear children?”

“That is true in Father’s line, and in many others,” Godric answers. “But the women of Cloister’s Mark have always lost the ability after their fiftieth year. My father is right to fear losing both of his Heirs, as he would need to divorce my mother and wed again if he ever needed another.”

“And he will not do so,” Eilénóra murmurs. “It was quite plain to see that they love one another very much.”

Godric swallows. “They do. He is not quite four years older than she, and they have been close since his first visit to Brittany in his youth.”

His father’s Patronus sends him a message at least once a day, sometimes thrice, though always at times when he most expects Godric to be alone. Godric finds his father’s voice to be of great comfort, especially when the healers have no good news for them. His family still lives, as does Uchered, who took ill two days after Godeva, but Bricius of the stable hands and Gisilberht of his keep’s soldiers have both died of the illness. They definitely now suspect this to be some sort of blight brought from Rome, but they are certain it isn’t the infamous Roman Fever. Healer Waðsige suspects something she calls Aryotitus, but Godric has no idea what that is.

Findláech is an excellent distraction at a time when Godric has never felt so focused and intent in his life. They go out into the market together and purchase a proper game of Tafl, as they are in a land populated by those who know it well. Even when playing with a boy who chatters like birds can sing in the morning, the game reminds Godric of his father’s quiet stillness, and it helps to settle his thoughts. Findláech still wins many games, but not without competition from Godric.

“When I learn to see, I will win, every time,” Godric warns him, daring to allow himself a smile. He has still not received ill news, and he will cling to the hope such a lack brings.

Findláech nods. “You probably will,” he agrees, surprising Godric. “You understand…” His small face twists up. “I will learn sword and bow, and maybe one day I will lead Father’s army, but you will do that and _other_ things, too.”

“What other things?” Godric asks. “And is there magic in your lineage?”

“No.” Findláech puts the pieces of Tafl back where they belong by hand. Godric is still so used to his father’s magical pieces that it takes a minute to remember that he needs to do the same. “And I don’t know about those other things. You will, and then you can tell me, since I am your friend.”

Godric does smile then. “If you call us friends in five years, then I will be certain to tell you about these _other_ things that neither of us yet know of.”

In five more days, news comes that those still ill have developed a rash similar to that of masele, but the healers are certain it isn’t masele at all. Godric dutifully passes this on to the healers still within the castle, as they all wish to be aware of what to watch for. They are all but certain there is no illness in the castle, but none want to take the slightest risk. Godric refuses to dwell on images of his mother or brother suffering the signs of illness as he speaks of them: all will have a high fever; all have the masele-like rash after the fifth day. The head aches, the heart is a rapid beat in one’s chest, there is vomiting, and everything is painful. Some of those who are ill act confused, or seem to be lost in their own minds. Others sleep and do not wake up. Still others suffer from epilepsia.

To distract himself, Godric takes Findláech down to the practice yard. There is already a padded suit of mock-armor in the prince’s size, so all that lacks is finding one for himself. Then Godric begins showing Findláech more complicated exercises to learn with a wooden sword, though often lessons end in routs where they chase each other around the yard, hiding behind targets and crafting ambushes. In this, at least, Godric is most certainly better, and he doesn’t think it’s merely because he is older. Findláech is too good at being sly.

After there has been illness in Griffon’s Door for ten days, Leofric’s Patronus brings Godric word that Godeva and Alfrid are both improving. Godric cannot come home—he _will not_ return home until the healers are certain the illness is entirely gone—but it now seems far more likely that his family will be there to welcome him.

Godric’s heart feels lighter for hearing those words. It brings him the thought to try showing Findláech the game of sight that involves the table covered in objects. Eilénóra is pleased and humored to provide many small objects from her own beauty table: jewelry and pins, sealed pots and tiny brushes. Godric scours the castle until he has the fifty objects, none larger than a block from a woodcrafter’s abandoned project the length of his forearm. Most are smaller than the clay pots holding the queen’s face powders.

Findláech is a complete traitor, as he finds this game to be _fun_. At least the sense of competition drives Godric to dig deep and hold onto his focus with both hands. Neither of them can count fifty objects, but Godric’s new best is twenty-eight. Findláech makes it to nineteen. None of them ever remember the embroidery needle, and in this case, Godric is the one who placed the stupid needle in the first place! He finds his eye is always drawn to what is large and obvious instead of tiny and hidden.

Godric scowls at the table. He knows that if he does not get better at noticing the small and hidden, he will later die for a stupid, avoidable reason. He’d prefer to avoid that sort of fate.

He does not expect Leofric’s Patronus to enter his chamber at dawn several mornings later. The mastiff opens its mouth and then no sound emerges, though it does not fade away. Godric immediately sits up and throws aside the quilt from his bed. It isn’t the Patronus having the difficulty, but his father.

Leofric’s voice finally emerges in brief, stilted words that sear Godric’s heart. “Alfrid’s fever returned in the night. He passed from us after the midnight hour.” Then the Patronus is gone.

Godric sits on the edge of the bed, shock leaving him numb and mute. Dead. His brother was recovering from this illness, and now he is dead.

He should not be dead. He was _getting better_. This should not be!

Godric is fortunate that he remembers his truis, as he certainly does not remember socks or boots. All he knows is that he is no longer in his room, but standing in front of the altar in the church, shouting at that bronze-edged wooden cross.

Bradán finds him in the midst of disrespecting the church, the cross, God, and possibly the whole of creation. The monk does not yell or tell Godric to silence himself. Instead, he pulls Godric into his arms and allows Godric to soak Bradán’s coarse brown robes with tears and snot.

His throat is raw when he is done screaming. The monk bids Godric to sit on the stone floor before the altar, and then sits down across from him so that their knees and hands still touch. Godric studies Bradán’s hands, which seem too pale and soft for those of a man. There are instead splatters of ink and stains ringing his fingernails, revealing his trade as a scribe.

“It isn’t right. It isn’t just,” Godric whispers, wiping his face with his linen sleeve. “Alfrid is my mother’s happiness—our happiness. God should not do such things.”

“You would trade places with your brother if you were granted opportunity to do so, right now, wouldn’t you?” Bradán asks gently.

Godric nods and swallows down the awful taste in his mouth. “He did not deserve to die so young.”

Bradán nods, his face etched with sympathy. “You would be wrong to make such a decision, Lord Godric.” Before Godric can be angry, Bradán asks, “Do you know why?”

“No. I don’t.” He hopes Bradán has a decent reason. His heart hurts so much that there is little that would convince him otherwise.

“Think upon the story of Moses,” Bradán begins, which is such an unexpected thing that Godric stops weeping in surprise. “Not upon the man himself, but on the final plague, the deaths of all the first-born sons of Egypt. If any mortal man were to do as our Maker did to cause the deaths of so many first-born children, we would consider it an atrocity.”

“Like—like King Herod and the infants,” Godric says.

Bradán nods. “Exactly like. We consider his victims to be martyrs to the faith, and it matters not that they were Hebrew. Herod committed a terrible act against them, but where we judge Herod, we do not judge the Almighty for doing the same. Do you understand why it is different?”

Godric is baffled by that; the answer must be obvious. “Because one is the Almighty?”

“No. We often question the nature of our Maker, as he created men to be curious. Herod acted selfishly when he slaughtered innocents, doing so only out of desire to safeguard his power. When the Almighty sent Death to the land of Egypt, an entire people were freed from bondage. The Hebrews did not ask the Almighty to slaughter innocents; they merely asked to be free. But…”

Bradán waits for Godric to sniffle and wipe his face again. “But think on this: there were many plagues unleashed upon Egypt during the course of Moses’s conversations with the Pharaoh. The Almighty took the souls of all the first-born sons of Egypt during a single night, but what if, by doing so, he saved them from worse suffering?”

Godric shakes his head. “I don’t understand.”

Bradán smiles. “We cannot know the whole of our Maker’s plan. We do not know the course of our lives as we walk within the weave of that great design. Your grief is proper, but your idea of fairness is that of a youth, Lord Godric. Your heart is heavy now, but what if your brother’s illness saved him from some worse fate later in life?”

The monk leans forward and pins Godric with a surprisingly sharp look, though there is still kindness behind it. “ _The righteous perish, and no one takes it to heart; the devout are taken away, and no one understands that the righteous are taken away to be spared from evil_. That is from the Book of Isaiah, and it is the answer to the question we have asked since words first began to fall from the mouths of men.”

Godric feels tears well up again, and his sight of Bradán blurs. “What could be so evil that dying of a terrible illness is meant to be _better_?”

“We’re not always meant to know,” Bradán replies. Godric already respected the monk, but now he earns Godric’s trust; the priest of Givelcestre does not like questions and will demand one cease blaspheming against the word of God. “I think some do discover why, though not necessarily by any careful means or plotting. Perhaps the Almighty decides that those few who learn the why have better reason than others.”

Bradán rests his hands on Godric’s shoulders. “It is not yet time for those who come in the morning. Join me in prayer, and we will speak the words that will see your brother’s soul safely with God.”

“I, uh—I might have cursed the Almighty,” Godric admits in a shamed whisper. “And that cross.”

Bradán raises one eyebrow. “You would not be the first to curse our Maker, nor the first to hurl insult at that particular cross, Lord Godric. That you regret doing so is what matters.”

Godric shuffles his way back into the castle afterwards. The stone is cold beneath his bare feet, but he barely feels it. He doesn’t know if he is better or worse for Bradán’s council. He simply feels exhausted, the wrung-out feeling residing in his chest like immobile stone.

When Godric delivers the news to the family, Eilénóra embraces him. Godric cries again, though he would really rather not. His head aches with it, a matching pain to what lurks in his chest. He just doesn’t seem to know how to stop. He doesn’t know what to do at all.

“A meal is what you shall do next,” Eilénóra says gently, guiding him to his own chamber before sending for servants. One of them turns on the water to fill the tub in the bathing room, and another brings broth and a honey-sweetened tisane that soothes his throat. When a magician comes by with their wand and heats the water, Godric gets into the bath at the queen’s direction. He has no reason to argue against it, even if he does not want it, but confesses afterward that it helped, a little.

Eilénóra embraces him again. “There is a reason why a baptism involves water. What do you wish to do?”

“I—I would like one of the magicians to send a Patronus to my father, please,” Godric says. “I need them to ask about Alfrid’s funeral.”

It is angering, but not surprising, when Leofric refuses Godric’s attendance. There is still illness in the keep, and it is not safe. Instead, Godric’s father offers him the means for his presence to be known during the funeral, even if he cannot be there. Godric has a lot of practice copying down Courtly nonsense words by now, but he doesn’t want that to be what is read over Alfrid’s grave. It isn’t what Godric would say, and not what his brother would understand.

 _My brother Alfrid was our joy_ , he writes, biting his lip as he concentrates on making certain the letters are pristine. _Our joy is lessened to see him taken from us. We should never forget that joy, so that we do not forget him. His laughter brightened our days and our hearts, and I will mourn that he cannot stand with me in the days to come, as I firmly believe he would have been the best of the three children of Griffon’s Door._

Godric reads the small speech aloud to Findláech, whose lip trembles throughout the entire recitation. Then he comes over and embraces Godric so fiercely that it leaves bruises around Godric’s waist.

“You are not to die,” Findláech mutters into Godric’s tunic. “Not you. You are my brother, too.”

Godric feels his eyes burn as he rests his hand on Findláech’s head. He would not ask his Maker to replace one sibling with another, but if God is granting him this kindness, he will not turn it down. “And you will always be mine.”

A very patient long-eared owl belonging to one of the northern magicians allows Godric to place the message tube with his careful words on its leg. Godric whispers the directions to Griffon’s Door to the owl, who butts against Godric’s nose with his head before taking flight. He watches until the owl is no longer visible in the sky.

Godric goes back to his chamber instead of joining the others for the evening meal. He sees his quill still resting in an open inkpot and realizes with abrupt sharpness that he never did write to Sedemai of Gifle, daughter of the Guardians of the Fosse Door. Godric finds another roll of paper and uses two red stones, ones that glitter with faint traces of mica or gold, to weigh it down.

Writing of everything that occurred from the time his family departed for Rome until the news he received that morning takes so much time that the midnight hour has been cried before Godric is done. The scroll is very long, but it—he wants her to know. Sedemai is all but a stranger, but she is a fellow child magician, a fellow Guardian. Maybe he will not find understanding in her, but his heart feels lighter for the writing of it all.

Godric unties the leather thong at his neck to once again use the seal of his House. Scarlet wax is impressed with the griffon rearing before the oak tree, binding the scroll shut. He then puts the scroll aside for morning, grateful that this one at least does not require the finding of the swiftest owl in Muireb for its delivery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Off-screen death of a child.


	4. Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He prayed for a miracle, and for quite a while, it seems as if he received one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @sanerontheinside is beta-swamped and still made certain this was done! Cheerleaders of @norcumi and @jabberwockypie still hailed; @mrsstanley is life-stamped atm.

The funeral is delayed long enough for Godeva to attend. Alfrid is given to the earth on the twenty-fifth of Maius, his grave placed near to the grove guarding Griffon’s Door. It is still not considered safe for letters to be sent from the keep; Godric only has a brief summary of events from his father’s Patronus. Leofric is kind enough to tell Godric that his words were read on Godric’s behalf, though he does not mention what effect they had on those gathered.

On the first day of Iunius, one of the castle’s servants brings him a scroll sealed with golden wax. The seal is confusing until he realizes that he’s not gazing at arbitrary shapes, but a meandering path that leads to a stone archway. He takes it back to his chambers to open at his writing desk, still puzzling over the unfamiliar seal. When he breaks the wax and unrolls the scroll, he finds that the writing is that of a child, probably older than Findláech but younger than himself. The letters are formed well, but there is an awkwardness that Godric remembers from his own attempts at turning his writing into something that more elegant than scrawling and smudges.

 

_Lady Sedemai of Gifle, House of Wessex and House of the Forked River in the realm of the Kingdom of England under the Reign of His Highness Edgar of England, House of Wessex_

_25 th Maius in the year 972_

_To the Lord Godric Elis, House of Griffon’s Door and Heir Apparent to the Eorldom of Magical Somerset_

 

Godric reads the first line and smiles, surprised that she wrote to him. Then he reads the line bearing his name and scowls, because who told Sedemai of his baptismal name? He doesn’t tell _anyone_ , he dislikes it so. His parents respect his wishes and do not use it to refer to Godric unless Court gives them no choice.

Grandmother would have told, if Sedemai thought to ask Laguia. She would have cackled as she did so.

That causes him to realize that he’s not heard from Laguia at all since illness struck the keep, and he wonders if she is well. Father said nothing of his mother succumbing to illness or death. Godric resolves that he will write to her, to father, to Leffeda—even to Mother, who he most wants to speak to even if he doesn’t know what to say. In the meantime, he has reading to attend to.

 

_I apologize for my handwriting. I am still trying to better myself at it._

_I’m surprised that you would write to me. We only just met a year ago, and for a very brief time._

_I am honored that you would choose me as your confidant. I will hold your words sacred and hidden from prying eyes. As much as it overjoyed me to read of Rome, a place I have never been, it hurt my heart to discover that the clever infant I met in your home has passed on._

_I am so very sorry for who you have lost._

_I am certain that Alfrid’s soul resides now with God in blessed safety. You both have what meager prayers a child can offer in your time of mourning._

 

Godric doesn’t expect to break down crying again from reading a letter, but those three sentences tear into his heart anew. He puts aside the letter to weep with his face pressed into his hands.

 

_If you wish to send more letters, know that I will welcome them. My parents have granted permission for me to receive them, as they trust in your honest nature. I did not let them read the last letter you sent me, but assured them that it was filled with honest tidings of the ill that has befallen the keep of Griffon’s Door. They wish you to know that they sent what help they could spare earlier in the month, magicians less likely to reap their death from that strange plague._

_I would like to write more, to give you some further peace, but my doings are rather dull. Perhaps when I am older and hold my wand I will be able to write of things truly of interest._

_Be well, dear friend. May God’s peace be upon you in these trying times._

_Sedemai_

 

Godric wraps the rerolled scroll and then binds it with a bit of leather to hold it shut. He puts it in the box that holds his quill, ink, and paper when traveling, burying the letter beneath blank scrolls and the two missives he received from Leffeda while still in Rome. If he recalls correctly, Sedemai would have turned seven in the spring. She can call her efforts crude all she likes, but aside from the fit of grief it caused him, that is a well-crafted letter filled with clever words and beautiful sentiment. It makes Godric glad he chose to write to her, though he felt awkward about it for days after sending the letter.

He plays through two games of Tafl with Findláech, distracted enough that the prince thrashes him. Godric doesn’t mind, though Findláech gives him a squinty-eyed look and says that Godric had best not be pretending to be poor in skill.

“No, I don’t have to pretend that at all,” Godric responds dryly. “I’ll play against you again this evening. Perhaps by then my heart and my head will be willing to grant you the defeat you deserve.”

Findláech sticks his tongue out at Godric. “You will not.”

“You challenged me. What else am I supposed to do?”

He still spends much of his time with Findláech, but he often finds himself in the company of the monks. He has always understood himself to be a baptized Christian, expected to follow the teachings of the Church, but he never gave thought to understanding it before. He listened and committed every sermon to memory, but nothing more.

The basilica of Saint Peter in Rome was the first time he truly _felt_ something of his faith, the echo of holy blessings captured in stone. He says as much to Bradán and Arthfæl. Neither has had the privilege of visiting the basilica, and they are almost childlike in their excitement as they pester Godric with questions about what the holy building looks like. It makes Godric doubly glad that he paid such close attention. It is also a kind distraction from his grief, granting him the means to focus on a joy rather than a sorrow.

Godric doesn’t return to Griffon’s Door the moment the keep is declared free of illness on the first of Iulius. _There is no reason to rush_ , Leofric tells him in a letter. It’s the first tangible message he’s received in months. _Your mother is still recovering, as are many, and you would be hard-pressed to find anyone available for lessons. Continue your education in the north._

Godric seeks out Bradán that afternoon. Arthfæl is intelligent and kind, but he has trouble discussing grief of any sort without a lost look coming to his eyes, his words coming to a stuttering halt. Bradán was the one who quietly informed Godric that his brother monk had once been living in the north of Muireb when the Skull-Splitter was in his prime. Arthfæl lost his entire family to one of the jarl’s worst raids against Muireb, and while he is the more experienced with the sharpness of grief, its hold on him is too strong to counsel others who suffer.

“Is that why Arthfæl became a man of God?” Godric asks. “Because he suffers so?”

Bradán shakes his head. “No, Lord Godric. Brother Arthfæl became a man of God because he wished to find some new joy in his life.”

“I don’t understand.”

Bradán clasps his hands. “In the scriptures, it says one must suffer to know joy. I do not think this is correct, and I do not mean that I question the word. I question the translation. Our Holy Book has passed through many centuries, and has been interpreted by many tongues. I have seen those who have never suffered in this life, and their laughter rings out like the purest of bells. I believe in my heart that we are being told that those who have suffered _understand_ the strength found in joy, for they have seen those times when there is nothing of joy to be found.”

Godric finds himself writing to Sedemai several times over the summer. It isn’t necessarily an activity he plans. He will sit down, prepared to write to his father, to his mother—though he is warned that others have to read his letters to Godeva on Godric’s behalf—and find himself penning words to a fellow flame-haired child magician of Somerset. He never dwells on his grief again, even if he suspects she wouldn’t mind. Sharing the burden once is one thing, but to force her to always carry it on his behalf is unkind. Instead he tells her about Inbhir Nis and the Gaeils, the Danes (taking care to include the proper term in English, Norse), and the Picts who sometimes trade in Inverness from southeast Alba rather than attending to Alba’s port of Eidyn Buhr. He writes down Queen Eilénóra’s stories from her home island in the west of Éireann, where the Gaeils and the Norse fought, mingled, and married to become a new people that then went south to fight, mingle with, and marry the Britons in the kingdoms of the Cymru. Those tales he can pull from his sister’s letters, as Leffeda now lives close to those borders, but at least there have been no wars to spoil her home.

In return, Sedemai keeps Godric informed as to the doings in the south. She now attends Court with her parents, and though she is not named as any sort of Heir to the Wessex line, King Edgar officially claimed her as family before his eorls. She speaks of Prince Edward and Prince Æthelred, and how the elder seems rather sad and grim all the time compared to his younger brother. Sedemai writes of how she does not like Queen Ælfthryth very much, but isn’t certain yet if the Queen’s displeasure with _her is_ because Sedemai is family, if the queen does not like magicians, or if there is some fault with Sedemai’s hair.

 _As if it’s a royal decree that one is to cover one’s hair_ , Sedemai tells him, sounding quite vicious for a younger child. _God made my hair, and that means I will show my hair to whomever I wish. Mother and Father gave up the battle of trying to make me wear the veil. I kept Vanishing it. I will not ever wear that stupid piece of cloth!_

 _I wouldn’t wish to wear it, either,_ Godric writes back. _It looks uncomfortable, and too warm. Why must it be white? That is such toil for those working in the lavandarias, and an unfair burden. At least when the Norse women veil their hair, they may well be donning a cloth crown. They’re colorful and sewn with jewels and gold._

 _No, I still wouldn’t wear it,_ Sedemai replies after a week. _Noisy and heavy. That seems worse than a mere white veil. No, I will still not be wearing one, no matter the color. If my parents hope that you will somehow tame me in this matter, they are quite wrong, _she says. Godric finds himself wondering how a man of the Britons would ever expect his daughter to be tamable.

News comes from Clover’s Hand by the fifteenth of September that Leffeda gave birth to her first child, a son she named Wilmær, on the eleventh. “Wilmær,” Godric repeats the name aloud, smiling a bit at the letter, written in his sister’s own steady hand rather than a scribe’s printing. Childbirth must have treated her well for Leffeda to have taken up a quill again so soon. “ _Famous desire_ ,” he writes to her, beginning with the translation of his infant nephew’s name. _I don’t know if that’s blessing or ambition speaking, sister, but he is of our parents’ lines. It is likely a good choice._

Godric returns home just after the Hærfest Equinox rather than the once-planned first day in December. There were only three deaths aside from Alfrid’s loss, and Leofric warned him that Godeva was…not well. That she remained unwell. He was not told that his friend Uchered was also ill, and still bears stark reminders of the illness.

“How bad?” Godric asks Aubri as they both watch Uchered stumble on his way to the kitchen. He is attempting to seek work in a household that now already knows he was ill and why, which is far from the bolder plans of travel and a priest’s education he’d once spoken of.

“Both Uchered and the Lady Godeva had attacks of the epilepsia while ill, more than once,” Aubri replies in a quiet voice. “I could not say if one remains worse than the other, for they suffer in different ways, my friend. Uchered—he will never be able to complete a priest’s education. He can barely recall how to read. He is still cheerful, at least, even when his feet sometimes drift out from beneath him.”

Godric doesn’t have to ask how his mother is doing. He’s seen it. Godeva’s hands tremble too much to write, or handle needle and thread, though she can still grip her wand and drink from a goblet without spilling. She walks without difficulty. It’s her mind that concerns him. She has terrible turns of mood, grieved as if she has learned of Alfrid’s death anew, every time. Sometimes she is capable of sitting for hours, unmoving, with an empty-eyed gaze that says she holds no thought at all.

“If he can keep to that cheer, then all the better,” Godric says to Aubri.

Aubri nods. “Edytha works in the kitchen now. She helps to look after him, as does Meraud. The Kitchen Head has been warned to be patient with Uchered.”

 The keep’s magical Healer, Ludovicus, and the keep’s herbalist, Sær, are both concerned that without assistance, Godeva’s health will fail. Leofric says that his mother’s heart is broken; Godric hears only the challenge of making certain her heart heals.

He watches her failure to progress beyond her grief and illness for weeks before he rises early on the twenty-third day of November. It’s a warmer day without rain instead of driving damp and chill. He helps to bundle his mother up in her warmest clothes and boots before he takes Godeva’s hand and escorts her from the keep, across the field, into the grove, and to the Door itself.

“Why are we here, Godric?” Godeva sounds more aware. He’d hoped it would be so.

“You’re a Door Guardian, aren’t you?” Godric says, mimicking Findláech’s best tones of innocence.

Godeva doesn’t answer. When he glances at her, it’s to see her staring at the hill with a pinched expression. “Mother?”

“I think I hear Alfrid’s voice whispering to me from beyond the Door.”

Godric’s hand tightens around her fingers before he quite thinks about it. “You can’t be hearing Alfrid, Mother. He’s with our Maker, not beyond the Door.”

Godeva’s expression eases before she looks over at him. “You’re right. You are. Have you grown taller?”

Godric is glad she asked the latter question. He doesn’t know if he’d be able to contain himself otherwise, not when it’s the first time she’s truly seen him since his return home. “No,” he says. It isn’t difficult to wear a scowl on his face. “I’m not a bit taller, Mother.”

“Perhaps God is saying that you have gained enough height for now,” Godeva teases him. They walk back together, though Godeva does pause and give the Door one last frown before they cross the field and return to the keep.

He prayed for a miracle, and for quite a while, it seems as if he received one. His mother survives the winter, despite all of the healers’ grim predictions. She still has those times where she seems lost in her own mind, and her hands have never ceased shaking, but she talks to them. Before it was as if she ghosted through the keep’s halls like one already deceased. This is not his mother as she was before the illness, but she is better.

Godric does insist upon going with her every time they visit the licburg behind the church to see Alfrid’s grave. The stone is small, the letters and numbers engraved deeply enough to span the centuries without fading away. She delivers whatever flowers she can manage to conjure from warmer lands and stands over the tiny grave for long minutes each time, weeping in silence. Godric doesn’t begrudge her for that. All of the best men and women he knows claim that tears are for healing, no matter the wound. Besides, he often weeps, too. He misses his little brother’s babbled excitement and happily chaotic way with his early magic.

Laguia was not in the keep when Godric returned home, but she arrives with the first meager snowfall in early Ianuarius. “Time for lessons again,” she says without even greeting him first.

Godric stares at her. “Good evening, Grandmother. How are you this fine winter evening?”

She laughs. “Now I know you are ready for certain lessons, if you’re going to be so bold as to call me on improper manners!”

“You’re my grandmother. You could at least pretend to have them,” Godric responds, smiling. Being in the north served him very well in respect to his words. He is still no diplomat at all, but he spent months among a people who use their tongues for wit and barbed words at the slightest provocation.

“Child, I will tell you of a man who has wit and barbed words to make the Gaeils of the North seem as harmless babes.”

Godric sighs. “I’m not that easy to read.” He has been practicing the skills of Mind Magic, truly!

“Yes, you are. Don’t concern yourself; you will get better.”

Laguia spends the rest of the ill weather of winter telling Godric tales of magic and history. Most of her stories concern one Myrddin Wyllt, he who used to be known as Myrddin ap Manawydan, son of Manawydan fab Llŷr.

“Manawydan—was he not also one of King Arthwys’s knights?”

“Oh, he was,” Laguia confirms, “but he was not magical, whereas his son, _whom we are discussing_ , most certainly is.”

“Is?” Godric repeats doubtfully. “If he served with the old king of the Britons, as legend says, then he must be dead by now.”

Laguia snorts. “My mother thought so, too, but she stumbled over old Myrddin in the wood and thus served her apprenticeship beneath him.”

“Is she still alive, too?” Godric asks in an annoyed voice.

“Yes, actually.”

“ _What_?”

“Have I never mentioned that?” Laguia smiles. “What a terrible lapse of mine.”

“Grandmother!”

Godric’s great-grandmother is named Edda, born in the village of Wicham on the River Wye in the northeast hills of the Cilternsæte. Edda of Wicham learned the games of Sight from Myrddin; she then taught them to Laguia, who has been torturing family and students with those games ever since. Before Godric can ask to meet Laguia’s mother, his grandmother is telling him about Myrddin’s other apprentices. There are a surprising number of them, all famous names upon the island…though none are as famous as Myrddin himself.

Like the monks in the north, Laguia is providing Godric with a distraction from his grief. He does not falter in making those visits to the churchyard with his mother, but it is soothing to return home and listen to the whole of magical history in the isles for as far back as written record and voice can recall. Then she discusses the differing ways of magic among the Britons, the Picts, the Gaeils, the Norræn, and those who use the Great Doors. Godric has heard of the Green Folk before, but never in such detail regarding the varying types of kobolds, ylfe, gobelins, boggarts, ghūls, redcaps, seirenes, the bucca, trolls, kelpies, Merpeople, brúnns, dunters, the Tuatha Dé Danann, genomos, pixies, the seolh, the dweorg, nixie, elementals, other spriggan, and the Faie. They are their own people, not considered to be the same as the elven clans who dwell on the island, but no one has heard a tale of them in years that could be confirmed by another. Laguia suspects they no longer dwell on Brittonic lands at all. Given what she tells Godric about their different ways of thought and doings, he’s quite glad of that.

“You said my great-grandmother is still alive,” Godric says early in Martius. “How old is she?”

“My mother is two centuries and five years old this year,” Laguia answers him. She has a faint smirk on her face when Godric stares at her. “I do not think she plans upon her death at any time soon, either.”

“Can I meet her?”

“You will.” Laguia regards Godric closely. “You have another question, grandson. Speak it.”

“I know that you did not have my father until you were fifty-nine years of age,” Godric says, trying to choose his words with care. “And you would have been sixty-six when birthing this Uncle Wystan that Father refuses to speak of.”

“They did not get on well as children, and the habit followed them into adulthood.”

Godric suspects there is more to it than that, but both his grandmother and his father are stubbornly close-mouthed about Wystan Grypusdor. “How old was my great-grandmother when she birthed you, then? By my math, she must have been ninety years of age. Even for a magician, that is far too old!”

“She was eighty-nine,” Laguia says in a dry voice. “It is not entirely unheard of when a line is long-lived, though I’m not certain if such traits will pass on to you and your sister. My husband, your grandfather, left this world when we’d both turned seventy-one. I still have not quite forgiven Haluin for abandoning me when I was still raising the youngest of our children. Your father appears old for his years, but he is hale, so there is a chance you will also be long-lived.”

“Are you not certain, then?” Sometimes Laguia seems so certain of all things.

Laguia looks surprised. “No one’s fate is certain, Godric. Not until they’ve breathed their last.”

That is not the self-satisfied answer Godric expected. “Oh.”

She tilts her head at him and taps her staff gently against the floor. “Yes, I’ve met him. Old Myrddin,” she adds when Godric merely blinks at her in confusion. “It was long ago, when I was still young. He proved himself to be a magician with no rival on this island. Perhaps he has no rival anywhere on this earth, but I have never left these isles, so I could not say. However, he has no thoughts left in his head for the sort of living you and I would find to be civilized. He is not Christian, either, though he might have changed his mind in the last century. However, that is not the source of his wildness. He has lived long and seen much, and has no concern for those comforts we consider necessary. If you ever meet Myrddin, grandson, you should be respectful, but you should also be wary. Sometimes the old magician will get an idea into his head, and there is no ridding yourself of the nuisance he’ll cause until that idea is out again. Sometimes it was greatness. Sometimes it’s the crockery coming to life and refusing to go back to being decent pitchers and trenchers ever again.”

Godric slaps his hand over his mouth to muffle his laughter. “You are in jest.”

Laguia heaves out a long sigh. “Would that I were. I did rather like that bit of servingware. It was finely made.”

To distract Godric from the idea of talkative servingware, she tells him that Wystan is not her youngest child. That honor goes to a daughter named Leffeda, born in 932, and that Godric’s sister is named for her.

“She died,” Laguia replies when Godric asks why Leffeda bears that name. “Your father was very fond of his little sister, and it did not matter to Leofric that Leffeda was not a magician. She lived to be grown, and to marry a man from Denmark, but died in childbirth the summer your sister was born. Your mother was kind enough to allow your father to pass on my daughter’s name to her first child.”

Godric thinks on it. “Wystan cared, didn’t he? It disturbed him that my Aunt Leffeda was not magical.”

Laguia narrows her eyes, but nods. “It did. I was not foolish enough to dare my heart and ask Wystan if he mourned her passing. I feared I already knew the answer, and that was pain enough.”

Leofric sends for Godric in the second week of Martius. Godric thinks it’s for a game of Tafl, a lesson that has been neglected often of late, and is surprised to find his father waiting at his table with two goblets of ale waiting. “Please, sit.”

Godric eyes the ale and does so warily. “If that is poison, I’m not drinking it.”

Leofric’s somber visage cracks in a rare smile. Godric treasures it, as he sees them so rarely now. “It is not poison. It is merely meant to soften a…it is not a blow. But it could feel like one.”

“Is anyone ill, dying, or about to kill us all?” Godric asks. When Leofric shakes his head, Godric says, “Then it cannot be that bad.”

“Perhaps not.” Leofric’s smile vanishes again, and Godric sits up straighter in response. That is the face that his father wears in council with those who work the lands and ply their trades within the bounds of Griffon’s Door, or when he is among other eorls in Court.

“Death is not a thing you can ever blame yourself for.” Leofric ignores Godric’s frown. “It is a part of our lives, no matter if we wish it to be otherwise. That is why it is important to give thanks for what we have, and the time that is given to us, before our Maker calls us home. He calls us all eventually, Godric. Myself, your mother, your aunts and uncles, your sister, your brother, and you, one day, though I pray it will be years from now. Battle may take us. Illness may fell us. These are facts that cannot be changed.

“These are the words I wished to say to you when your brother was lost to us. I could not do so unless I wanted to risk your life—and that I could not do. It is more than the bonds of love that made it so.”

“I’m not certain I understand, Father.”

“You have brought light to your mother’s eyes that I was certain I would never see again,” Leofric says. “That is a miracle wrought by you, Godric. I will confess that in my grief for your brother, the Door never once occurred to me. I think it helped to call her back from shadow.”

Leofric picks up his goblet and sips at ale, leaving the bristle above his lip gleaming wet in the torchlight. “I often feel the ache of having failed my second child…but often the guilt of having failed you.”

“Me?” Godric is still trying to figure out what sort of blow this could be. Mostly, he is simply confused.

“Your mother might be brighter, but the illness has ended her ability to bear children. I’ve left you, my only son, solely responsible for the fate of Griffon’s Door. I’d rather it be otherwise. I had no wish to leave the fate of our eorldom upon your shoulders, not when I am well aware of your preference in the matter.”

All right. Godric picks up the goblet and drinks the ale, his thoughts churning. He has to admit, he hadn’t yet truly given thought to what his inheritance now _has_ to be.

Godric bites his lip. “I can do it,” he says, hoping he isn’t lying. “You’re doing it on your own, Father. If you can, then so can I.”

“You are of the line of Grypusdor and of Cloister’s Mark. I know that you can.” Leofric voices the words with enough assurance that Godric believes it. He goes on to his lessons in magic with a lighter heart, though he would still like to see a return of their games of strategy. Godric will not mention it; he will not begrudge his father his grief.

“I would be better at this if I held a wand,” he mutters after Laguia ensnares him with Mind Magic for a fifth time in a single lesson.

Laguia regards him in silence. “A magician does not _need_ a wand, grandson, else you would not be able to perform the magic you already know. You are capable of Síðian, of changing the nature of objects by touching them, and of basic Mind Magic. Your knowledge of spells is rich indeed, even if you’ve no tool in your hand yet to cast them. A wand will come to you when it is time. Right now, your tool is your ability to focus!”

Godric despairs at the idea of his ability to concentrate being his tool. That is certainly not his strength, and he can speak of his inability to find that stupid embroidery needle in proof of it. He can now average thirty objects recalled with each lesson of the sheet and table, but still the needle eludes him.

Stupid needle.

Soothing his stinging pride is this: Godric does better now on his long walks through the fields with Laguia. His recall of fine detail is not always perfect, but he is progressing well enough that his grandmother is beginning to challenge him with even slighter details to be found around them. Fallen leaves. Colored stones. A bit of rotting fabric caught in a briar long ago. A lost section of a bird’s nest. The number of stones in the low wall encircling the outermost boundaries of Griffon’s Door.

“What brings about this improvement, grandson?” Laguia asks him in Iulius.

“The monks,” Godric answers while still letting his gaze roam about. “Those who serve the royal church of Inbhir Nis. I would often…I spent time with them after Alfrid’s death.” The small church didn’t have the awe-inspiring feel of the stone that built Saint Peter’s Basilica in Rome, but it did have the saturated feeling of peace. It is the church of those who are quiet, who serve in joy, who lead others in prayer with good hearts, and counsel others with wise intentions.

Godric hasn’t been back to the church in Givelcestre since returning home. After Bradán’s kind words and Arthfæl’s quiet conversations, the idea of listening to that dried-up stick of a priest drone on made his belly sour. That is not a way to maintain his faith, and he told Leofric so when his father asked. Godric feared Leofric would be disappointed, but instead his father merely reminded Godric that there is a single room devoted to worship within the keep. If Godric took himself there on holy days, there would be nothing spoken of Godric’s failure to attend to the Givelcestre priest.

He is often alone in that small room, which has no windows to the outside at all and is lit only by candles and torches. The others attend the Givelcestre church, rightly fearing that the priest might speak against them if they do not. Godric has no idea what Leofric might have told the dried stick to keep the priest from saying similarly of Godric, but he never hears even a rumor of the priest’s discontent.

Leofric has to attend King Edgar’s coronation in Baðan that summer, as well. Godric is just wondering why a king who is already a recognized ruler needs a coronation ceremony.

“I believe it’s in response to the new Emperor of the Romans,” Leofric says in a sour voice. “Otto II has inherited the kingdom after quite a bit of ceremony ensured it. I believe His Grace Dunstan has been helping to plan the event—a full ceremony in the Baðan Monastery, crowned before God and the witnessing nobles of the kingdom.”

“If the Archbishop is bringing ceremony from Rome into the affair, it sounds as if it is designed to lull everyone into a slumber so they don’t complain overly much.”

Leofric is startled into laughing by Godric’s comment. “Perhaps. I take it you are pleased _not_ to be attending?”

“I would be fidgeting enough to shatter the stones beneath my feet,” Godric replies, grinning. “Enjoy yourself, Father!” Leofric rolls his eyes before departing, but Godric is heartened. That is the most cheer he’s seen from his father since last spring.

Leofric returns and reports that no, he did not enjoy the length of the ceremonial coronation for King Edgar and Queen Ælfthryth. He was intrigued by the king’s council, held in the city of Legacæstir. “It was good to see the city of our Briton and Roman ancestors again,” he says musingly. “Though many of us were distracted by the presence of King Cináed mac Maíl Coluim of Alba and King Máel Coluim of Strathclyde, especially as they managed to attend the council without killing each other.”

“That…sounds…quite unlike them, actually,” Godric says.

“They both pledged to support King Edgar as some sort of political ploy that I’m unaware of.” Leofric frowns. “Something involving the non-magical Eorls of Jórvík and Bebbanburgh, accompanied by the Bishop of Lindisfarena. Our liege granted Laudian to Cináed, which extends the border of Alba further to the south, shrinking the lands of Northumbria.”

Godric nods. “Oh—and grants Strathclyde and Alba a longer shared border, so if they wished to unite against Muireb or England, they could do so more easily.” He doesn’t quite understand why his liege would make that sort of arrangement, but it does explain why the two kings in the north resisted the urge to make one another dead.

 “Exactly so. The other eorls of Northumbria were not pleased, but as they are of Norse blood, King Edgar disregarded their concerns.”

Godric can interpret that well enough. “The council ended in a fistfight, didn’t it?”

Leofric’s lips twitch. “I will not be confirming that rumor, son…nor will I make mention that our liege’s closest guards might have been treated to blackened eyes to spare King Edgar the indignity.”

“Those eorls and the bishop are all part of the northern realm of England—they are within the bounds of Northumbria. What do _they_ get from shrinking their own lands?” Godric asks.

Leofric sighs and looks annoyed. “More than likely, it’s a plot against King Edgar. Such things usually are.”

It’s not concerning, not at first, when his mother falls ill with a fever at the end of Augustus. Then the fever turns to fire, bringing pain, chills, and a rash that resembles masele. The healers do their best to appear calm, but even Godric can see that they are panicked.

“It’s the same, the very same,” Ludovicus whispers as he hustles Godric to the other side of the keep, far from Godeva’s chambers. It’s too late to send him away, not when they all might have been exposed to the spreading illness, but none of those who lived through the last outbreak wish to chance fate. Godric is kept away from his mother, who is caught in fever dreams, unaware of anyone who might be nearby.

“How could it be the same illness?” Godric asks after several days pass. His mother’s condition has not changed, but no one else has fallen ill.

Healer Waðsige returned from Muireb at Leofric’s request. “I’ve heard of such a thing happening before,” she tells Godric. It is the last time he will speak to her until the keep is declared free of illness. The healers live in seclusion with the sick, a precaution the magical healers have insisted upon for untold centuries even if they have forgotten why. “I still believe this is the Aryotitus Sickness. Some who fall ill can succumb to Aryotitus later in life without ever again encountering the illness in others.”

Godric is chilled by the idea of a sickness that will follow you for the whole of your life. “Will she live?”

Waðsige purses her lips. “I do not know, Lord Godric.”

By the time word comes that Leffeda and Astell decided to celebrate their son’s birthday by conceiving another child, Godeva has fallen into a sleep from which none can rouse her. Godric isn’t able to tell her himself, much as he’d like to, but it would be better if _someone_ could tell his mother that she should live to be a grandmother for a second time. If anyone in the keep has consolation at all, it’s that the spreading illness does not spread.

Once they’re certain they will bring no danger to the others, the healers emerge at least once a day from Godeva’s chambers. Waðsige says that any who suffered Aryotitus during last year’s sickness may one day find themselves facing this same fight. She advises each of those thirty men and young ones that their best weapon is to stay hale as one who is prepared for battle, and to never neglect cleanliness or opportunity for a meal.

“Now do you know?” Godric asks Waðsige. The question is blunt, but he does not want false words.

Waðsige nods. “I do. Unless God provides a miracle, your mother will pass from this world, Lord Godric.” The healer hesitates. “I will not leave until that time…and were I you, I would consider it a kindness that she does. There has been more of the epilepsia, and I do not think her mind survived the strain.”

Godric swallows hard. He didn’t expect anything else, not when his mother has not awakened in a fortnight, but hearing that it is true, hearing it confirmed, still makes his chest ache. “Thank you for telling me. Does Father know?”

“Yes.” Waðsige’s mouth twists up in sudden annoyance. “He has asked to sit with her. I reminded Lord Leofric that his duty is to you, and that I _will not_ allow you the same, not when there may still be risk. He chose to remind me that the Lady Laguia is capable of becoming your guardian. I still disagree with his decision, but it was his to make.”

Godeva of Cloister’s Mark, who wed to become Countess Godeva of Grypusdor, dies on the final day of September. Godric knows because that is the day Leofric finally emerges from his mother’s chambers, his face drawn and grey, his expression bereft. Godric might be reaching beyond the power he is meant to wield at his age, but it does not stop him from encouraging Waðsige, Erneis, Ludovicus, Meraud, and Sær to close ranks around Leofric so they can forcefully escort him to a meal, a bath, and a bed. Then Godric writes until his hand is cramping and sore, his fingers thoroughly stained with ink, taking on the task of writing to the whole of the family to let them know of Godeva’s fate.

His sister’s letter is first, as it is the hardest. Leffeda did not take Alfrid’s death well; he knows because she won’t speak of it. She may not be ready to hear of their mother’s passing, but none of them have a choice. Then a letter goes on to Laguia, who was intent to pass her hærfest season in Gifle where she has often been tutoring young magicians. Then, for the sake of courtesy, he sends a brief message to Sedemai’s family, the House of the Forked River, telling the Lady Osthryth and Sir Gabell what has befallen Griffon’s Door. The next letter is meant for the women of the House of Cloister’s Mark, his aunts Hawis and Ostrythe. Godric has no idea if their husbands Thim and Wischard have made their way home, but they are not the ones who have lost family. They’ve no right to receive this news before his mother’s sisters.

The last roll of paper is meant for the king, Edgar of England. When an eorl or countess of England is lost to them, he always wishes to know. After that, Godric sits back, massaging his aching hand and contemplating the fact that while he has often thought their family large, they really are not such at all.

Well, perhaps Wystan Grypusdor has a family, but if so, Godric doubts his father would wish to see his disliked brother attending his wife’s funeral. It’s just as well; Godric has no idea where he would even send the letter.

 _You are avoiding your own grief_ , Godric says to himself, but it helps nothing. Maybe that is truly what he’s doing, but this is nothing like the shock of losing Alfrid. It is not sudden or unexpected; this is a loss he has been expecting for a full month. Perhaps another would feel proper grief the moment their mother’s death was announced, but at the moment, Godric doesn’t know what it is he feels at all.

They bury Godeva in the Givelcestre licburg next to Alfrid’s place in the earth. The stone placed upon her grave is larger but of the same make, the letters carved the same way, so it will appear as a match to the smaller stone next to it. Godric ignores the Givelcestre priest twig through the funeral, though at one point they trade inappropriate angry glares. If Godric had been caught at that, he would have honestly told anyone asking that the priest was the first to be rude.

Instead, he is the only one remaining, long after the grave has been filled with earth that is now taller than the surrounding grass. Time will lower that pile of earth until it is equal with the others. “Grandmother.”

“Grandson,” Laguia replies as she approaches. She stands next to him, leaning on her staff. “Why do you linger?”

“I was recalling what flower she called most often to place on Alfrid’s grave,” Godric says.   
I think I might need to go south to find it still in bloom in October.”

“Ah.” Laguia glances over her shoulder. “The irritating twig is gone. What was the flower, Godric?”

“Hunigsuge.”

“A rose would be simpler, but I did not expect it to be easy.” Laguia raises her staff and brings it down to touch the loose grave three times. “There. That will work nicely.”

Godric watches, curious. A group of the long, creamy blossoms do not appear. Instead, a green shoot emerges from the loose earth. It quickly grows to adulthood, a fully sized hunigsuge plant using both stones to support itself. The blossoms form and droop to shadow both graves, but the clinging vines are careful not to grow over names and dates. “Thank you.”

“Come, grandson. There is nothing more you can do here.” Laguia rests her hand on Godric’s shoulder and gently guides him away. “You will be able to return.”

“I know.” Godric bites his lip until he tastes blood. “Is it wrong that I haven’t wept?”

“When your oldest uncle died, I did not weep,” Laguia says in a thoughtful voice. “He had been ill for some months, and his passing was not unexpected. Later…later, I missed him in those times when I realized I wished to write to ask his advice, for he had a brilliant mind. You and he are much alike, though your father may not recall that. It is easier to remember Godwine, Godeva’s father, as you certainly share in his temperament. But: temperament bound by wisdom will do great things one day.”

“I don’t care about doing great things right now,” Godric mutters.

“But you still have a child’s understanding of what great things are,” Laguia counters gently. “You will learn that great things are not what a bard’s tales might imply.”

“What of great victories?”

Laguia considers it rather than dismissing the question out of hand. “That has always depended on why a great victory was required.”

His grandmother gives him through the rest of November to grieve, a task at which Godric fails miserably. He walks through his mother’s empty chamber, and misses her presence, but there are no tears. He visits her grave, but that does not kindle true grief. The similar stones, both of them wrapped in the vibrant green of hunigsuge leaves that refuse to fade, only evokes peaceful thoughts.

The priest twig, Fraunce, has twice tried to uproot or kill the magically grown hunigsuge. Godric sat on the churchyard’s stone wall and watched throughout Fraunce’s second attempt, smiling every time the priest glared in his direction. As if it's his fault that the twig cannot remove a magically grown plant. Arguing with Laguia is a fruitless endeavor, even if it is only a gift she left behind.

“Come,” Laguia announces on the first of December. “We’ll be away from these halls for a time.”

Godric doesn’t argue. He is actually glad to pack his belongings for travel, even if he has no idea where they will go. The keep mourns the loss of the eorldom’s magical countess, and his father is distant. Godric does not blame Leofric for his grief, but it is difficult to share a table with a man who can barely bring himself to speak five words to his son in a day. Perhaps when they return, it will be better.

He doesn’t expect that they will first go to Gifle along the old Roman Fosse Way to visit the House of the Forked River. It is only for a single evening and breakfast the next morning, but it is a kindness to see Sir Gabell, Lady Osthryth, and Sedemai in circumstances that do not require the formality of a funeral.

After supper, he and Sedemai are allowed their freedom from the adults, which Godric finds surprising. Then again, they have been writing letters to each other since Maius. Perhaps her parents are indulgent. Or perhaps they are plotting.

Godric notes the discreet guard trailing them and rolls his eyes. Or perhaps they are plotting a wedding. Absolutely not. Sedemai is a child and so is he. They aren’t yet marrying anyone.

“That priest of yours is _such_ a dried-up twig,” Sedemai tells Godric when they have the privacy of the keep’s ramparts.

Godric finds himself smiling, the first time he can recall doing so outside of the twig’s efforts to uproot a plant. “He is, yes.”

“That sort would never survive as a pastor to the flock of Gifle,” Sedemai continues in a scornful tone. She hops up onto the outer wall and walks along the uneven stone path. “Well? Come on!”

“You are a demanding sort, aren’t you?” Godric shrugs and climbs up onto the opposite wall. They both potentially court death to walk higher than others in the keep, with a steep drop to stone or harsh ground awaiting them on either side. “The twig you speak of was not impressed with you, either. I do think I heard him comment to another that you are a heathen to go about with your head uncovered. He was not impressed when it was pointed out that you were seven years of age, not a maiden.”

“If you are of age to go to Court, you are of age to cover your hair!” Sedemai quotes in a snippy voice before giggling. “He said it to me directly when he thought no one watched. I stuck my tongue out at him. I think he would have found himself a sapling to lash me with if Mother had not been nearby.”

“He should have dared it. Your mother would have turned him into a stone.”

Sedemai grins at him in the cool blue darkness of a gentle moon. “You shouldn’t say such terrible things about rocks.”

Godric promises to write to her, even though he says he has no idea where they’re going. Sedemai says that their owl can find whomever she asks him to find, so all he need do is keep his promise.

They go next to some place far in the north, a village with mountains rising to the east. “Where are we, Grandmother?”

“Penrid,” Laguia replies, humming under her breath as she turns in circles. “Ah, there. Yes. We must walk. Come along.”

Godric isn’t terribly surprised that she leads them directly towards the mountains. “We’re not going to climb one of those, are we?”

“Oh. No.” Laguia is silent for a moment. “Most likely not.”

“Of course,” Godric mutters, and pulls his cloak tighter around himself. He is very, very glad that the king and queen of Muireb made certain that his cloak was of thick fur and hide, able to withstand the cold of the northern winter. “These are the Hills of Arthwys, aren’t they? The eastern border that once protected his kingdom.”

“They are properly the Penrithellenes,” Laguia says, though a sudden gust of wind nearly steals the words away before Godric can hear them. He immediately thinks of ghosts, but he has nothing to fear from the dead. “Arthwys ap Mar was called King of the Penrithellenes as well as King of the Britons. This was long ago, when the tribes still had strength of number. They were a single kingdom then, not kingdoms of North Britons and South Britons. His bride was Cywair, a Princess of Éireann in the days before the Norse and the Saxons came. She was a Gaeil woman in truth, and that is a rare thing now, much like the Britons and Picts.”

“Just as we are not really Saxon any longer,” Godric says.

“You are of Saxon descent for many generations,” Laguia snaps in response. “You are a child of Breizh, Letavia, what is called Brittany, and thus you are also Gaul! But from the blood of both your parents, you are Roman, child. Your blood is so pure that the city sings at you when you walk along her streets.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Godric asks, irritated that she has divined one of the things he has never told another. Leofric recognized that Godric valued Rome, but Godric never told anyone he could _feel_ her.

“It is not.” Laguia sounds calm and pleasant again. “Hello, Mother.”

Godric lets out a surprised squawk and nearly tumbles backwards down the hillside. Standing on the trail before them where no one had been before is a woman who seems as aged as Laguia, though her shoulders are stooped and she looks to be more dependent on her staff. Her hair is such a stark white it seems to glow, even though the sun is lost behind thick winter clouds. She dresses not as an Englishwoman, but as the Norse do. Her clothes are as fine and bejeweled as any jarl’s queen.

“Uh—greetings?” Godric offers when there is nothing said. He hopes Edda is truly still alive and not a ghost. She seems a bit more solid than any ghost he’d wish to contend with.

“Greetings, great-grandson,” Edda of Wicham answers him. She smiles, revealing that she still has an impressive number of teeth remaining for someone who is over two centuries old. “Come with me. Walk close. We travel to a more hospitable place.”

Godric scurries to catch up to them, sticking close to Laguia’s side. He doesn’t make a sound when the path turns dark, as if night is already fallen, even though he wants to. He can feel magic, though, and one does not interrupt magic. He’d hate to be stuck somewhere that didn’t exist.

When the darkness lifts, it does not flee completely. They’re in a grove that feels strong to his senses, but not in the same way as the grove surrounding the Door. There are also watchful eyes, but he suspects there might be actual beings hidden in those trees. There are numerous clans of elves in the isles who keep themselves hidden from men.

Still, the others are silent. Godric winces and decides to see if he can stick his foot in it this soon after meeting his great-grandmother. “It is an honor to meet you, Great-Grandmother,” Godric says. “Where are we?”

Well. He did try.

“He really is one who speaks directly to the heart of things, isn’t he?” Edda observes. “It is good to meet a young member of my bloodline, Godric Grypusdor. This is the Grove of Brae.”

“Grove of—” Godric breaks off in surprise. “The Grove of Brae is north of Inbhir Nis!”

Edda’s wrinkles crease in a way that Godric hopes is amusement. “It is. I travel different paths than many. I find it saves time I would rather devote to other things.”

“Did you learn that from Myrddin Wyllt?” Godric asks.

“I think if I were to claim I did, he would claim the opposite, and a great argument would ensue.” Edda chuckles. “I’d prefer to avoid that, even if I’ve not seen the old goat in many years. We’d be arguing for years yet once he arrived to settle the matter. In truth, great-grandson, I do not know. Perhaps we learned it from one another, or perhaps we learned it from others still. It was a very long time ago.”

Godric nods. He is used to Laguia talking in circles, so her meaning is easy to understand. “Can I learn to travel as you do?”

Edda gives him an odd look. “I am not a Door Guardian, young Godric. You are. Do you not know that some ways of magic are not meant to flow together?”

“Yes. No. Perhaps,” Godric admits. It sounds familiar, at least. “Why should they not flow together?”

“I am going to put my grandson’s head through the wall of his own keep,” Edda mutters. “All magic is made of energia. The composition of the universum, of all things that exist. The magic that gives a Door its strength or gives me the way to walk other paths is made of the same energia, Godric, but the way that those magics are used is different. One flow can interrupt the other in a way that the universum will not be bothered by, but men would find it inconvenient. Do you understand?”

Godric nods. “You could have just said, ‘That is ridiculous and a terrible idea.’”

“But then you would not know why!” Edda glances upwards, as if praying for guidance. “Do you not want to know the why of things, child?”

“Well, I did just ask if I could learn to walk as you do, but you said no,” Godric points out in annoyance.

Edda and Laguia both laugh, though Edda sounds a bit like the aging goat she named Myrddin Wyllt. “He speaks truly, Mother,” Laguia says.

“That he did,” Edda agrees. “You are here for a few lessons from me, young Godric, ones you should hear before you receive your wand. It should be my grandson giving you these lessons, but even I am not so old to forget that men should be allowed their grief.”

“I feel like I’m not. Grieving, I mean,” Godric whispers.

Edda regards him. “Do you miss your mother, young one?”

Godric swallows and nods. “Yes.”

“Then you are grieving. Such feelings are not always the swiftness of tears or rending pain of the heart. Sometimes grief is subtler, prickling under your skin for long years instead of purging itself all at once.”

That sounds true, and terrible. He’d rather purge much of his grief at once, as he did upon learning of Alfrid’s death.

Godric decides he’d rather discuss anything except mourning. “Why do you dress as the women of the Norse?”

Edda glances down at her clothes, as if only then recalling what she wears. “Oh. Yes, I could see why that would be a question. I was born of Saxon parents in the Cilternsæte Hills along the River Wye, and I lived as a Saxon for long years, even after my apprenticeship with Myrddin was done. Learning from the Wyllt, though…you begin to crave knowledge, Godric. You seek it out as a newborn calf seeks out her mother’s teat. The path might wander from side to side, but your goal is always the same. After my children were grown, the desire to learn was overpowering, and I followed it. I came to dwell with the Norse on their islands in the north and the west. I began to live as the Norse do, and eventually I was claimed as one of their own. In their culture, I am a respected vǫlva, the most powerful of their magicians. I hold my own Court among them, and walk the paths to assist those who would ask for a Vǫlva’s aid.”

“I am at least learned enough not to ask if I can become a vǫlva,” Godric says, which earns him more of Edda’s dry laughter. That is a title reserved only for the women of the Norse. He is not a woman, nor does he desire to ever become one.

Godric does learn magic from Edda, and to his surprise, he finally begins to find ease in the lessons. He soaks in the knowledge of the Doors and their ways as if he were sitting in a bath, taking in the water with his skin. His senses of how to travel for Síðian expand until he realizes he does not have to have seen a place on the isles to go there. He simply knows how, as if the pathways always existed. It isn’t the sort of path-walking that Edda performs, but she says the awareness, the feeling of knowing, is similar.

When their time together is done, Godric can sense every single Door on the island. There are more than he thought, but is told that there are far fewer than there used to be. He nods, unconcerned; he cannot change the past and those losses, but he can safeguard what is his. Even in Muireb, he only needs to reach out with the thought of it in his mind, and the sense of Griffon’s Door comes to him. It always smells of shelled acorns, drying oak leaves, and the sweet bitterness of carpet moss.

“How can magic have a scent?”

“When it is strong,” Laguia replies in Edda’s place. “Or if your magic is attuned to the nature of such things.”

Godric reaches out to every door in turn, from Fosse’s Way up through the single door hiding within a hill in the Orkney Eorldom. Each one has its own individual scent-taste, an aspect that helps him to identify each different door. There is even one lurking on the hill that the royal castle of Inverness is built atop of, an archway lurking in the courtyard that Godric had been quite fond of during his visit. It is quieter than the others, and lacks a Guardian, but that does not mean it ceases to be a Door.

“Could I travel using the Doors? By knowing how they feel?” Godric asks.

Edda raises an eyebrow. “I would not suggest it.”

“That is not a no,” Godric points out.

“It was not a suggestion, either.”

Only on their last day with Edda, Godric emerges from her thatched stone dwelling and eyes the Grove of Brae. It is the day of the Winter Solstice, and while no one in Griffon’s Door marks the day but to remember its passing, the two days of Solstice have always been the sort of days that wake Godric early. Edda and Laguia are still asleep in their separate chambers, and will likely be resting for an hour yet.

It is a short walk to go from his great-grandmother’s home, climb the hill, and enter the grove, but Godric would like to see it again before Laguia takes him home. He sets out with the sun still pushing away morning fog, feeling as if magic is dancing along his skin. He climbs the hill and thinks he needs to spend more time climbing things. He is short of breath and his hair is damp with sweat. It isn’t even a very tall hill!

There are elves in the grove. They look as startled to see Godric as he is to see them. “I’m—sorry,” he offers. “I can go.”

“Not yet, you will not,” the nearest elf speaks in Gaoidhealg. “We have been watching you, Guardian of Griffon’s Door.”

“I had noticed,” Godric says. “I didn’t mind.”

“We know.” The elf signals to another, revealing the many rings on their fingers. “One of us believes that you will know us well, though she cannot divine how. Thus, she gives you this. You will need it.”

Godric reaches out and gingerly accepts the blue stone from the elf. It looks as if it was painted in woad, though no hint of paint flakes off at his touch. He turns it over to find a rune he does not recognized carved into its surface. Then he gains the taste of old stone on his tongue, the tang of salt, the mineral smells of river water, and fresh green.

“This stone is linked to the Door in Inbhir Nis,” Godric says in surprise.

The elf nods. “Lissini passes on a message, Guardian. _Stone has a long memory. Carry this memory with you_.”

“Thank you,” Godric replies, bewildered. “It is a kind gift.” He thinks it is, anyway. Divination is not a strength of his, nor is it a talent of any magician in his home. He can’t even begin to guess at its use…

…yes, he can. But men are not meant to use the Doors. There is no reason to ever need those paths.

Godric closes his fingers around the stone. “Tell her I will carry it.”

The elf finally smiles. “Good. It is most unwise to turn down a gift from one who can See.”

Edda is waiting before her home when Godric returns. “You have met the Brae Elves.”

“Yes.” Godric holds out the stone for her inspection rather than have his great-grandmother prod at him with words until he gives in. “It was a gift.”

Edda does not reach out to take the stone, but raises her eyebrows when she sees the rune. “Ah. Nauðr.”

“What does it mean?” Godric prompts when Edda says nothing more.

“You do not know fuþark?” Edda shakes her head. “No matter. You will learn. This rune serves as equivalent to the Latin _N_ , but on its own, in this older form, it means _great need_.”

Godric represses a shiver. “It’s linked to the Door in Inbhir Nis.”

“Is it?” Edda smiles. “Now you will always carry a part of the royal castle with you. It is a kind reminder of one who calls you brother.”

“Is that the whole of what it is?” Godric stares at her. “Is it?”

“I wouldn’t know. Fate can bring odd things to us that we never expect,” Edda replies. “For now, take it to be what it is, rather than what it could be, as those things may never be.”

After saying their goodbyes—Edda embraces Godric, which is such a shock he almost forgets to return the gesture—Laguia does not take Godric home, as he expected. Instead, they return to Inbhir Nis.

“Now?” Godric asks, trying not to let all of his delight leak out to smother everyone around him. “I thought I would not return until summer!”

“Given what has happened, your father and I felt that you needed another kingdom’s peace more than you needed to be trapped in the keep all winter, surrounded by the memory of loss,” Laguia replies. “You will return home after the Lencten Equinox.”

“Godric!” Findláech yells when the boy sees him. He has grown where Godric still has not, his head now resting against Godric’s belly instead of his waist. He is going to be tall, like his distant Norse kin.

“Have you behaved yourself?” Godric asks.

“Of course I have! I’m supposed to,” Findláech retorts indignantly. “Come on! Mother and Father want to see you!”

Godric looks to Laguia as they follow an excited Findláech up the stairs to the royal chambers. “Thank you. I am glad to be here.”

Laguia reaches out to pat his arm. “You are welcome, grandson.”


	5. Obscurus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “My responsibility is to my people, Edward. I will not leave them to suffer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Joy at betas @norcumi, @mrsstanley, and @jabberwockypie (@saner is wondering why she took 3 classes this summer)!
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> Some of you might stop and blink a few times after the section break. Trust the author and keep reading, baes. <3

On his eleventh birthday in the year of their Lord, Godric finds his wand—or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that it finds him. He wakes that morning with a pressing feeling that he _must_ visit Griffon’s Door. He puts on his clothes, forgets his shoes, and runs through the keep until he’s dashing across the courtyard, hidden by the shadows cast by pre-dawn light.

The path through the grove doesn’t try any of its usual tricks to mislead him away from the Door this time, and within minutes, Godric is standing before the moss-covered hill with its crown of ancient green-leafed oak. He presses his hand to his side, panting for breath as he feels those watchful eyes upon him. Waiting.

If he’d stopped to think on it at all, he wouldn’t have done it. No one is meant to climb the hill. Not even his parents would dare.

Godric climbs the hill as if possessed, taking careful steps not to damage the moss or to trip over an exposed tree root. He is not standing _in_ the Door, but he is now most certainly standing upon it.

Lying at the base of the oak tree is a long branch of wood. It isn’t made of oak, and it isn’t a fresh green limb blown in by a storm. Godric picks it up, curious. The straight ash branch is as thick as his clenched fist and twice the length of his forearm. When he peels away an aging strip of bark, the pale wood beneath is veined in the same scarlet that colors his family seal.

No trees of ash grow in the grove that shelters the Door. Godric knows a gift when he sees one, and he feels an upswell of utter joy. Finally, finally! He’s to have a wand, and the Roman wand-making twins from Constantinople were correct. He’ll make it with his own hand. As long as he stays on the Door, his work to carve it will be exactly as it should be.

Godric sits down on the mossy rug at the base of the oak tree and pulls the ash branch into his lap. When he uses his boot knife to strip away the bark, it’s to find that the beautiful scarlet lines hold true throughout the entire length. He loses the entire morning to carving, following the hints within the wood until what remains is a bit over a foot long. The wand is simple enough, but the larger end meant to be its grip gives him the most difficulty. By the time he’s done scowling and gently prying away flaws in the wood to reveal what is hidden, the wand’s grip is the sweeping curl of a bird’s feathery wing.

He holds up the ash wand, heedless of the bark and woodchips sticking to his clothes. The Door gave him his wand, and Godric made it. He feels chilled, but he also feels intense gratitude that the magic of the Door would give him such a gift. “Thank you,” he whispers, patting the bark of the oak tree. The moment he does so, the weighty press of all those watchful eyes is almost gone. Godric can still sense them and know that they are present, but…

Oh. This is recognition. Respect. They’re honoring him for understanding the value of what he has been given.

When Godric emerges from the grove, it’s a shock to find that it’s nearly sunset. Everyone from the keep is in a panic as they search for him. “Why is everyone so concerned/” Godric asks in confusion. “I was merely at the Door!”

“Godric.” Leofric looks to be biting back harsh words, and Godric feels his gut churn. He didn’t mean to worry his father. “Godric, we checked within the Grove and at the Door,” he says, but his eyes have drifted down to the wand Godric carries in his right hand. “Oh. I see. The Door has acknowledged you as its next Guardian. I’m very proud of you, though next time, it would please me if you told someone where you were venturing.”

“But…I was at the Door,” Godric repeats, warmed by the compliment if still confused by the frantic search. There is also the matter of the sun _setting_ , but he is doing his best to ignore that. He got used to ignoring odd things during his time with Great-grandmother Edda. “I was sitting at the foot of the tree. How could you not see me?”

Laguia looks amused. “Godric, if you sat upon the Door itself, it would not want you to be found while you worked at your task. I do assume this wand came from your own hand?”

Godric nods. “Yes, Grandmother.”

“That is one of the reasons why we always warn others against climbing the hill that hosts the Door,” Leofric says, but he is smiling, the worry gone from his face. Godric relaxes; his father has not looked happy in long months. “I worried, but you were answering the Door’s call and doing exactly as you should. Now we will have supper in the Receiving Hall, and tomorrow you will show me that you know how to use what you have made.”

Godric lets out a nervous breath and wraps his fingers around his wand’s curved handle, feeling the wing’s detailed feathers bite into his skin. “Yes, Father.”

Casting spells is now like breathing, he can do it with such ease. He knew them already, every syllable and intention. The wand in his hand merely gives him the means to aim the spell and release. Every time his magic flows through his veins with each incantation, Godric wonders if this is what it’s like to fly with wings of his own.

What he really excels at is dueling. Fighting. Godric finds that he is just as comfortable with a wand in his hand as he is a sword, especially now that he is allowed a true blade instead of one made of wood.

Guardian. He is literally that. It’s comforting to know what his place in life will be.

After Godric demonstrates that he knows every single spell Laguia has ever taught him, Leofric begins taking Godric along as he sees to business within the eorldom of Somerset. Godric has known the Church leaders, thegns, and the men and women of prominent Houses for several years now, but this time it’s different. He isn’t a child greeted politely at a banquet, but is treated as an adult visitor of slightly lesser rank than his father.

Leofric spends a great deal of Iulius conversing with the Lord Martin, the non-magical Eorl of Somerset living in Taunton. In his company is fifteen-year-old Harold, Martin’s third son, who was recently approved as Lord Martin’s Heir by King Edgar. “I know you still have concerns that there are those who would act against our king, but none of us have seen hint of it, Leofric.”

“That bothers me, and it should concern you, as well. We’re surrounded on all sides by kings warring with their neighbors and kin, and yet none are challenging King Edgar?” Leofric shakes his head. “It does not feel like peace to me. It feels like the laying of a quiet trap.”

Godric doesn’t think Martin is convinced, though Harold seems uneasy. “None of us who are loyal to His Highness will cease to be watchful, Leofric, you know this, but if the worst comes to pass, he has a healthy Heir.”

Leofric frowns. “Healthy and wise I think Edward to be, but no boy of twelve should bear the burden of crown and throne.”

Godric approaches Leofric after they’ve returned home at the end of the week. “Father, do you normally spend so much of your time speaking to the other rulers of Somerset?”

“Not often.” Leofric waves Godric into his quiet office after signing his name to a scroll. “But things have felt troubled of late.”

“They haven’t seemed that way to me.” _Aside from the illness_ , Godric thinks, but does not say.

Leofric gives him a searching look. “Laguia doesn’t think you have any strong Divination talent beyond the usual touches the Maker may grant us. Do you disagree with her?”

Godric thinks about it. “No. Great-grandmother Edda says I am good at feeling and following magic. I have good instincts, but I don’t have visions, see things upon the water, or have dreams of great portent.” Mostly he dreams of things that have already been, memories with such clarity that he can vividly describe them on waking.

“Sometimes I do,” Leofric says, surprising him. “But such times are very, very rare.” He takes his time in rolling up the scroll, melting the stub of wax, and pressing his seal into the melted glob of scarlet. “I’ve had an uneasy feeling in my heart since your mother died, and it took me many months to realize it was not one borne of grief. I fear strife is coming to our kingdom, as it has already come to our eorldom.”

“It has?” Godric stares at his father in disbelief. “When? I’ve heard nothing of this!”

“For good reason.” Leofric sets the completed scroll aside to be sent off by messenger bird or by runner in the morning. “I asked Laguia to keep you in the north to remove you from the heavy grief lingering in our home, yes, but also to safeguard you until I understood more of what is happening. Now that I have that understanding, I will tell you.

“Raiders came to the western shore before the Lencten Equinox. They attacked several farms and villages, burned churches, and plundered. We all thought this at first to be destruction caused by the Norræn and Gaeil from Éireann, who perhaps thought Somerset undefended.”

Godric frowns. “You don’t think they’re from Éireann.”

Leofric shakes his head. “No boats landed on our shores, though it has taken me all of the lencten season and most of summer to confirm it. These were not raiders crossing the ocean. These are bandits from within our own lands, and worse, I think I know who leads them. If I am correct, then it is the first time in many years he’s dared to challenge me.”

“Who?”

“What has your grandmother told you of your uncle, Wystan?” Leofric asks.

“Not much,” Godric answers, feeling wary. “I don’t think she is fond of him, but doesn’t want to speak ill of her own son.”

“Mother is being charitable, then.” Leofric sighs. “Wystan is a powerful magician, though he is not as skilled in the arts of war as he claims. If he has finally convinced others who _are_ skilled to join his banner, then he is a threat. Not a formidable one, but a threat nonetheless. All I wait for is a sign from one of the western families that his band has been sighted. When that moment comes, I will be riding out to rid Somerset of his pillagers, and then I will once again take Wystan before the Council to receive judgement.”

Leofric looks at Godric. “I wish for you to accompany me. Not to fight, though I’m certain you would be skilled. I want you to observe this battle from a safe distance. Watch how those who are treacherous fight their battles. It’s a rare lesson to behold, and one should take advantage when possible to learn it.”

Godric crosses his arms to brush his fingers along the grip of his wand, hidden in his sleeve, feeling a tingle of magic that matches the curl of excitement unfurling in his breast. “Yes, Father.”

“Not. To. Fight,” Leofric reminds him sternly. “To watch. You are eleven years old, son. Your time for fighting will come, no doubt sooner than I would prefer. It is my duty as your father to see you prepared for that day, not foundering in doubt when the first arrows are loosed.”

Godric smiles. “Yes, Father. I understand. But if I see a sword at your unprotected back, I am not going to refuse to lift my wand if a spell will stay someone’s hand.”

Leofric stands up and clasps Godric’s shoulder. “And I would expect no less.”

When word comes that Wystan’s band of brigands has been sighted, Godric feels equal parts excited and ill. Erneis teases him and says that Godric’s reaction is normal before a battle, even if one is used to battles.

The morning turns odd when Laguia announces that she will accompany them. Godric knows from the expression on his father’s face that this was not discussed or planned.

“Mother, I have no wish for you to witness war between two of your own sons,” Leofric says in a formal, stilted voice.

“No more wish than I have,” Laguia replies. “I’ve an ill feeling about Wystan’s intentions, Leofric. Better to have another with a wand at your side than not.”

They set out before noon that day, a full company of riders brought for their skill with blade, bow, ax, and wand. No magician uses Síðian, out of respect for the non-magical who cannot travel that way, but it is to be a short ride, no more than another day and two nights.

Godric turns in his saddle before the last hill blocks his view. His gaze it not drawn to the keep, but to the grove, which feels as if it is whispering to him. Try as he might, Godric has no idea what the ancient wood means to tell him.

 

*         *         *         *

 

That is the last memory Godric has that he trusts. Some days he knows exactly what happened next, and the rest must be his imagination, as it’s always been this way. Others days he knows the truth, but it’s a truth hard to hold in his thoughts, like trying to capture motes of dust in his cupped hands.

The memory of what came before that day, of what his Uncle Wystan forgot to remove, is his reminder. He keeps it most often locked away in his mind, afraid that if Wystan were to find it, Godric would lose one of the things he most desperately needs.

On good days—nothing but lies—Godric knows that Uncle Wystan is his guardian after the deaths of his parents and younger brother several years ago. His uncle takes care of Griffon’s Door, acting as Steward for Godric until Godric comes of age at eighteen to take on the duties himself.

Uncle Wystan is a harsh taskmaster. The only time Godric is allowed to hold his own wand is when he teaches Godric magic.

He is ever a disappointment. Wystan is quick to point out Godric’s failings. How Godric’s own father had been an accomplished warrior by age twelve, and would be ashamed to see his son incapable of following in his footsteps. Even his mother, accomplished magician of Cloister’s Mark, would be displeased.

This cannot be true, even if the words sting his heart. He knows these spells; he remembers Grandmother teaching Godric these same incantations in the time before he had a wand. Instead of protesting his uncle’s teachings, Godric wraps his hand around the whispering ash’s carved wing of his wand and learns them again. The practice will not hurt, even if all else does.

Godric often has to repeat their names to himself: Leofric, Lord of Griffon’s Door, Magical Eorl of Somerset. Godeva, Lady of Griffon’s Door, Magical Countess of Somerset. He has an elder sister named Leffeda that Uncle Wystan never speaks of. He had a younger brother named Alfrid who died in infancy. He had another brother claimed in friendship named…named…

Godric blinks his eyes and refuses himself the luxury of tears. He can’t remember that brother’s name today. Tomorrow he might.

Wystan takes Godric to the king’s Court at Castle Corfe, where he hears whispers of unease about his uncle’s presence and guardianship of Godric. There is nothing to be done about it, even if Godric would prefer to be rid of the man. It’s obvious that Wystan sees him only as an obligation, not blood kin that inspires caring. However, King Edgar confirmed Wystan Grypusdor as Godric’s guardian, and the king’s word is law.

While at Court, heads of Houses and Eorls of England murmur their condolences when Wystan is out of earshot. Godric accepts them with his jaw clenched, responding in the way he is expected to. It’s the confusion in their eyes that helps Godric to recall that something of all this is _wrong_. This is not how things should be.

Other mornings, it’s as if Godric awakens to find that Wystan’s magic is less. Godric can remember the battle in western Somerset on those days. The memories send him out into the practice yard and find him repeatedly striking a rope-wrapped post over and over again. His uncle approves of Godric rising early to train, as a proper warrior, and never asks why Godric feels the need to hit the post until his lungs burn and his knuckles bleed. Erneis tends his hands afterwards, always scolding Godric in reminder that he is meant to wrap his hands in linen before practicing hand-to-hand striking.

Godric tells him that he won’t have time for the luxury of linen wrappings in battle. Erneis presses his lips together in angry disapproval, but concedes Godric’s point. He is no longer the Weapons Master of Griffon’s Door—another loyal to Wystan has that honor—but Erneis is the only warrior within the keep to hold Godric’s trust.

“Do you remember the battle?” Godric asks him one morning. It’s the day of the Summer Solstice. Godric noticed last year that the Equinoxes and the Solstices seem to clear the odd cobwebs in his head, and has long wondered if it is that way for others.

Erneis gives him a sharp look. “The one that took your father?”

“And grandmother. And most of our keep’s original guard, the men under your watch,” Godric murmurs.

Erneis breathes out and begins tugging on Godric’s bandages, as if inspecting his already perfect work. “Sometimes. I wake wanting to scream, knowing I am not doing my duty to safeguard you, but Wystan controls the whole of Griffon’s Door and Givelcestre. All of the men who guard us swore fealty to him, Godric, not to your father.”

“I know.” They’re all strangers with gleaming eyes Godric does not trust. There are still those in the keep whom Godric has known his entire life, but the fear marring their features makes them difficult to recognize even when he remembers what is true and what is false.

“I don’t understand why I remember some days, but most often…I do not,” Erneis confesses.

“It’s the Solstice. The Equinoxes. Days of strong magical importance,” Godric says, resting his hand on his teacher’s arm. “I am not learned enough in magic to understand what Wystan has done, but his enchantment is weaker on these days.”

“I understand. Be certain to speak to me on those days, Godric, as one man to another.” Then Erneis loudly pronounces Godric’s wounds dealt with. There is no magical healer in the castle any longer; Godric will need to be kind to his damaged hands until they heal on their own. Godric judges that to be around nightfall, when his own magic awakens with the setting of the sun and brings tingling waves of heeling to fractured bone.

“I confess I don’t know what we could do, Lord Godric,” Erneis says. “Wystan killed not only our healers, but all those magicians trained in battle save for you. We have no way to oppose him.”

“No, we don’t. Not yet.” Godric swallows, thinking on possibilities that are often lost when the shadow of Wystan’s spell blankets his mind. “But we can begin to think on ways to make it possible.”

They have to do something. Godric has been living this way for a year now, and remembers almost nothing of it because of an enchantment that hides deep in his own bones.

 _Think. Think on the battle_ , he reminds himself as he leaves the practice yard. He is expected to be in the Receiving Hall for each meal, and has quickly learned not to look his uncle in the eyes—re-learned it, at least. He knew that aspect of Mind Magic once, but his uncle’s spell made him forget those lessons.

Wystan doesn’t teach Mind Magic, perhaps fearing what would result. Godric spends his nights writing Laguia’s lessons with a broken quill into the dirt floor of his chamber while muttering them under his breath. He has to erase his work when he’s done, but the act of writing helps him to recall those lessons even when the pall of forgetfulness weighs down on him.

He’s lived down here since Wystan took on his guardianship several years ago. Wystan claimed he didn’t want his ward spoiled, but all of the original inhabitants of Griffon’s Door live down in the lower levels with him. The hired soldiers and brigands loyal to Wystan Grypusdor reside now in the homes they once had in the upper storeys of the keep.

There are wooden doors on each small chamber with a small portal just large enough for an arm to pass through. These are not living quarters, but the rooms where Leofric kept prisoners until their punishment was complete or others bargained for their release. Godric remembers that every night, if briefly, when the outer bolt slides home as the soldiers secure them inside. For their safety, it is said.

Not for their safety. This is for Wystan’s safety. Wystan fears what they might do if free to roam the keep at night.

They have not dwelled down here for years. They’ve only dwelled in these dungeons since last Augustus.

Godric sits on his pallet the night of the Summer Solstice and vows that he is going to fool Wystan Grypusdor right beneath his broken, twisted nose. He will not know that his enchantment has failed until it is too late.

This is much easier vowed than achieved.

Godric quickly discovers that he truly must wait for days of high magic. If he does not, none of the others recall that Wystan has only kept them enslaved this way for a year’s time. They recall it being nearly five years since the deaths of Alfrid, Godeva, and Leofric. It does not help to show them that Alfrid’s date of death is too recent for those five years to be true; they cannot comprehend it. Godric has no idea why he can hold onto part of the truth when no one else seems capable of it.

They’re all forced to attend service in the Givelcestre church on Sunday, overseen by Fraunce the stick-priest. No spell will cause Godric to cease despising that man. His memory of his father’s funeral is tainted—not by Godric’s idea of _when_ it occurred, but due to Fraunce not giving Leofric a proper service. Godric saw Wystan give coin to the priest afterwards, and understands that Fraunce is loyal not to the church, but to his uncle. Perhaps he always has been, and that is why he treated so ill with the Heirs of Griffon’s Door.

Godric can remember Laguia falling in battle to Wystan’s curses, a mother felled by her own son. He can remember Wystan telling Godric years ago that his grandmother cannot be his guardian, as Leofric wished, as she died of old age before Leofric’s death.

Godric takes a bit of grim comfort in the fact that Fraunce still cannot rid his mother and brother’s grave stones of the climbing hunigsuge, which blooms and perfumes the air throughout most of the year. The dates on the stones help him to remember that Laguia could not have died years ago when it was her magic that grew those fragrant vines. Not when his mother died only the year before.

“You know, when I am Eorl of Somerset, you will no longer have a place in this church,” Godric says to Fraunce before leaving one Sunday.

Fraunce sneers at him. How one such as he can wear the cloth of God and not be struck down is sometimes beyond comprehension. “You will never be Lord of Griffon’s Door, foolish child.”

Godric raises both eyebrows. “My uncle Wystan is merely my guardian until I am eighteen.”

The stick-priest of Givelcestre’s smile is oily and wrong. “Of course. How silly of me to forget.”

King Edgar, House of Wessex, dies on the eighth day of Iulius. No one says a word as throngs gather to see their king entombed at Glastonbury Abbey, but Godric knows it must have been assassination that felled his liege. The king was merely thirty-three years old and in good health. There was not even a battle wound to blame.

The king’s unexpected death places the eldest prince, Edward, on the throne, though it took a near fistfight between thegns and clergy for a coronation to take place at all. Godric has vague memories of being a friend to the prince in his youth, but Iulius is not the Solstice. He has no idea if they are true memories, or if they’re nothing but a young boy’s fanciful thoughts of being close to his overlord.

The new king approaches him during the weeklong feast to celebrate his coronation. Edward is thirteen to Godric’s twelve, though Godric is taller. “I would speak with you alone, Lord Godric.”

Uncle Wystan seems to take offence. “Your Majesty, my nephew—he is not well.”

King Edward turns cold eyes to Uncle Wystan, and it does not matter that he has to look up at the man to do so. That is the gaze of a strong man who expects to be obeyed. “I did not ask if he was well. I said that I would speak with him alone. Depart, Wystan Grypusdor. My father might have named you Lord Godric’s guardian without hesitation, but if you try my patience, I have the authority to replace you.”

Uncle Wystan bows at once. “Of course, Your Majesty. Forgive me my concern for my nephew.”

Edward grasps Godric by the elbow and pulls him to a corner of the Great Hall. “Lord Godric. It has been too long.”

“It has,” Godric replies, because no matter his confusing memories, he knows it has been a long time since they’ve spoken. “I am sorry for your loss, Your Majesty.”

“So are many others, I imagine,” Edward says dryly. “Dunstan has been of great assistance, but even the queen is displeased by my claiming of the throne. She should be happy. Æthelred is far too young for this task.”

“He is barely nine,” Godric whispers in shock. “Is she—” He manages to halt his words before they can cause his tongue to be lopped off.

“Mad?” Edward smiles. “She is thinking of power rather than the good of the kingdom, but that has long been a failing of man, Dunstan says. She will come to see that this is for the best in due time. Right now, I am more concerned for you.”

“For me?” Godric looks at his liege in confusion. “Why, Your Majesty?”

“Once you called me by my name,” Edward murmurs. “You still have permission to do so, my friend.”

“Only if I am certain no others are about,” Godric replies. “It would not be proper, Edward.”

Edward clasps Godric’s arm, though a warning glare sends an approaching eorl scurrying away. “Thank you for that. I’ve few friends left to me, and would keep those I have. My worry for you is in your uncle, Wystan. He has a terrible reputation, and is not known as a magician with much concern for loyalty to my crown, Godric.”

“He is my named guardian by your father,” Godric says, though he can’t help but sigh. “There is nothing to be done, is there?”

Edward bites his lip. “By rights of family and lineage, I could send you to the Countess Leffeda and the Eorl Astell of Thornbyrig. As your sister, she could take legal guardianship, and Wystan Grypusdor could not contest her.”

“What of Griffon’s Door?”

“That…” Edward shakes his head. “I am sorry, Godric. I would not be able to displace Wystan Grypusdor as Steward over Griffon’s Door. There must be someone capable of acting as the Magical Eorl of Somerset, and though he is unlikeable, my father named him so until you come of age.”

“Then—then I can’t leave Griffon’s Door,” Godric says, much as he longs to. He’d like his thoughts to be his again. “My responsibility is to my people, Edward. I will not leave them to suffer.”

Edward grins and grasps both of Godric’s shoulders. “That is why I look forward to having you as one of my eorls, Lord Godric. That is a rare loyalty in our kingdom, and I treasure it as much as I treasure our friendship.” Then he lowers his voice. “But by the Almighty, Godric. If things become dire, write to me. We will decide what to do together.”

Godric nods and then bows for the sake of his watching uncle. “I will not forget your kindness, Your Majesty.”

They return home from Dorseteschyre on Lammas. Godric’s thoughts are not as sharp as they were on the Solstice, but he will make do.

 _Why wait, then_? Godric wonders. Why would Uncle Wystan have kept him alive at the end of the battle that felled most of the keep’s warriors, Leofric, and Laguia?

Inheritance. Godric frowns and wraps his arms around his knees as he stares at the stone wall on the other side of his small chamber. If Wystan had killed Godric outright, the lands and titles of Griffon’s Door would not be Wystan’s, but would have automatically tied themselves to one of Leffeda’s children. (It pains him that he cannot remember their names.) By claiming guardianship of Godric, Wystan can establish himself as the Lord of Griffon’s Door, and eventually, be accepted as Magical Eorl over Somerset in truth instead of in another’s stead.

The stick-priest believes Godric will not be Eorl of Somerset. Wystan plans for Godric to die before he attains his majority, but at a time when Wystan will be welcomed to stand in his nephew’s rightful place.

Godric lets go of his knees and thumps back onto his pallet. It isn’t a matter of reminding himself of the magic he knows, of discovering who among the denizens of Griffon’s Door can remember how things are meant to be. He must be ready to do _something_ when he attains his magical majority at age fourteen. If he waits too long, Wystan will simply kill him and claim it an accident.

There are so many problems with this plan that Godric groans in frustration and turns his head. A reflection of candlelight on metal catches his eye, and he gets up to seek it out.

On the floor, sheltered by the tiny scribe’s desk Godric has been allowed in order to write the polite missives meant to convince others that he and Griffon’s Door are both well, is an embroidery needle. He picks it up, tilting it from side to side while admiring the fine point. This one is not iron, but goblin-made, an expense his mother would have demanded for her craft.

Godric is the one who finally saw the needle the day of the battle. He can’t remember if he warned anyone that the battle was a trap, or if his warning was heeded, but he noticed. He disobeyed orders to remain distant and fought his way to his father’s side with Erneis at his back.

On bad days when there is nothing but the truth, he remembers his father’s death.

“Thank you for this gift, Mother,” Godric whispers, and begins his evening of scratching Mind Magic lessons and other useful spells onto the floor. The broken quill is in his right hand; the embroidery needle is clenched in his left, an unyielding reminder of what must be done. 


	6. Perception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If we’re old enough to die, we’re old enough to pledge ourselves to our rightful lord.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All hail cheerbetas: @norcumi, @sanerontheinside, @jabberwockypie, @drougnor, & @mrsstanley! (No proper beta on this one, so blunders are mine, all mine.)
> 
> See notes at the end for a Warning that doesn't quite fit the archive parameters.

Life with Wystan, of hearing his droning voice and his vile castigations, seems just as real as his life with his father and mother. There are times when Godric thinks, perhaps, that he lost his way in his own mind. Memories of Leofric and Godeva and Rome are fanciful dreams he created to escape the weariness of life with his uncle.

By the Winter Solstice, Godric knows why he sometimes remembers the truth when others do not. It’s Mind Magic and the Sight game, the very lessons Laguia instilled in him, the ones that Great-grandmother Edda continued. He knows others have Mind Magic training, but it seems to avail them no good. Perhaps Edda gave him some special blessing—

No. It was not her, but the Brae Elves.

Godric carefully moves his pallet to one side and pries up a loose stone. Hidden in the tiny, crumbling space is the blue stone the elves gifted him. He picks it up with both hands, turning it around with his fingers until the fuþark rune is visible. _Great Need_.

He brings it to his nose and can almost—almost—see the boy who lives near the place this stone is from. The fact that he cannot remember the boy or his home disturbs Godric, as he knows it is of utter importance that he do so. All he knows is the scent of it, a Door that feels as if it must be far to the north.

With the dawn, he knows better. He knew better on Samhain, too, but could not remember it afterwards.

That day they are meant to work, the importance of the Solstice unrecognized in favor of the upcoming Christmastide. Godric uses all of that time to his advantage, knowing he has only until midnight to remind certain others of what they know. He seeks them out, one at a time, beginning with Erneis, the only adult Godric knows who can recall what things were once like in Griffon’s Door.

“I was always terrible at Mind Magic, Lord Godric,” Erneis admits under the cover of ringing blades. Wystan has forbidden the practice of dueling with wooden swords, thinking it makes his soldiers too soft. Their only safety is helm and padded armor, which will never be good enough if Godric misses his guard and a grown man slices through one of his limbs. “Your father tried to teach me, but I never had the skill.”

“You _have_ to have it now,” Godric insists, narrowing his eyes as he watches Erneis’s blade. These are the only part of his lessons he does not mind, not when Wystan uses lessons as a means to make much of Godric’s lacking intelligence. He catches Erneis’s sword and twists, taking a moment to grin his success when Erneis loses his blade and has to go retrieve it.

“Why?” Erneis asks after Wystan orders them to resume. He always watches from the wall, lounging between the great stones set in place to protect the archers.

Godric waits until Uncle Wystan grows tired of watching them duel and turns to converse with Rychard, a cousin from his dead wife’s family. Godric has no idea of her House or even her name. He suspects that Wystan despises her for dying without first providing him with Heirs. “If we wait for me to attain my majority, it will be too late. He’s going to kill me the moment he believes he can safely claim Somerset, Erneis.”

Erneis is so shocked he nearly forgets his strength. Godric winces at the feel of the blade against his arm, dropping his left hand from the grip of his sword to shake out the tingling feeling. That is going to bruise well later, and he earned it for not blocking in time. He might have the height of a grown man, if a short one, but he does not yet have a man’s strength.

“He cannot do so,” Erneis hisses in anger. “He will break the line of succession—”

“Which won’t matter if he’s convinced the kingdom to find him acceptable!” Godric retorts. “I’m twelve, Erneis. The earliest we could leave here without Wystan being able to send all of England after me is the day I turn fourteen.”

“And attain your magical majority, if not your inheritance.” Erneis circles him again, looking for an opening while contemplating Godric’s words. “You would need a master for that to become true safety.”

“That is the one thing I cannot plan for, so it is best ignored. I am more worried about our escape.”

Erneis lowers his sword, looks at Godric for a moment, and then leaps forward to attack. Godric, not fool enough to fall for that again, rolls to the side to avoid him. He comes up on his feet off-balance from the padded armor and then drops again when he sees the blade at his throat. “You’re supposed to yield!” Erneis calls after him, laughing.

“I sarding won’t!” Godric rightens himself with better footing and knocks Erneis’s sword away before it can paint a winning line across his ribs.

“Our escape, hmm?” Erneis asks when they’re returning swords and padding to the armory. It’s the only time they’re allowed inside. Wystan and Rychard are the only men with keys; rumor is that they sleep with the heavy iron strung around their necks.

“Wystan is already sparing with what food he gives to those who are truly of Griffon’s Door,” Godric says in a low voice. “You and I are the only two who will be invited to sit at the Christmas table, for to do otherwise would tell his guests that things are not what they seem. If any hint of famine comes to the keep, who do you think my uncle will starve?”

“Everyone but himself and his men, I imagine,” Erneis answers, frowning. “And you, of course.”

Godric nods. Wystan cannot afford to take an ill nephew before King Edward. “Let this be the first order I give you. You are going to learn to defend yourself with Mind Magic, Weapons Master Erneis,” Godric says. Erneis stares at him, wide-eyed, but says nothing. “It is the only defence against Wystan’s sorcery you have, and I will need your help.”

Erneis sighs and nods. “It will happen, Lord Godric.”

“And when I come to your room at night to release you, remember to obey me, not my uncle,” Godric adds.

“Release me _how_?” Erneis sputters, but Godric is already leaving the armory. He’s seen Rychard approach, his quick steps speaking of how much he is looking forward to a duel. Godric is not going to oblige him, not with the many ways such could go wrong.

Next is Oriel, the only magician left in Griffin’s Door but for himself. He has an easier time explaining things to her, especially when he hurries her latest task and helps to wash the laundry. It’s harder to do without a wand, but Godric has been casting wandless spells since he was an infant. If he can change the color of rocks, he can clean a bedsheet.

“We barely get enough sleep as it is, Godric,” Oriel says after they fold one of the great sheets. Wystan is using them for Leofric and Godeva’s marriage bed when he entertains the few women of the keep willing to join him at night. “This will be an hour less, every night.”

“But that hour will see us better able to defend ourselves against what he does,” Godric insists, afraid that Oriel will say no. Erneis has the courage of a warrior already. Oriel is a magician being denied her first apprenticeship due to Wystan’s treachery.

“I know. I just wonder if it is only your role as the Door’s Guardian that protects you from the whole of his influence,” Oriel murmurs.

Godric bites his lip. “I don’t think so, but the only way to find out is to try. Do you trust me, Oriel? Even when you forget that Wystan is an usurper?”

Oriel gives him a surprised look before nodding. “Of course I do, Godric. I’ve known you for my entire life. No matter what Wystan has done, you have never treated poorly with any of our people.”

“Then trust me tomorrow, the next day, and the day after that.”

“And if we’re caught?” Oriel asks, shoving the next fouled sheet into the tub of lukewarm water.

“I will claim it is all my doing. Every single moment of it.” Godric smiles when she appears horrified. “He cannot yet kill me.”

“But he can make you wish to be dead,” Oriel mutters grimly.

“No.” Godric reaches for the calm certainty residing in the back of his mind. “He never will.”

Aside from Oriel and Erneis, it is only Aubri, Meraud, and her daughter Edytha he dares speak with. Edytha is skittish of the idea, though she would be loyal to him if he asked. Instead, it’s Meraud who bans her from what they will attempt. “She is my only living child, Lord Godric,” Meraud’s head is bowed, as if she expects Godric to lose his temper. “I fear to risk her.”

“Then we won’t,” Godric says, and leaves her company to approach Aubri.

Aubri shakes his head. “I can’t, and not because I do not wish to.” He looks in the direction of the kitchen, where Uchered is slowly emerging with a heavy sack of flour resting across his shoulders. “You know Uchered is not capable of any sort of Mind Magic. Someone _must_ be here to watch over him, Godric. If your plan succeeds and we leave him behind, there will be no one to keep him away from those foul pintels that your uncle calls soldiers.”

Godric embraces Aubri. “My friend is very brave.”

“Your friend is quite honestly so scared there is nothing left in my bowels to leave in a privy,” Aubri confesses. “And I would much rather be attempting this with my lord.”

“But you’re wise enough to know who needs you more. No matter what happens, I will not forget,” Godric promises him. “Not you. Not Uchered. Not anyone.”

That night, after the watchman has cried the ninth hour, Godric takes the blue stone and his mother’s embroidery needle out from their hiding place beneath his pallet. He looks down at the glyph and whispers, “Great need.” He isn’t certain if that is what it is for, but it’s comforting to do so.

Then Godric works his arm through the small portal in the door. If he were larger, this would not work at all, but his limbs are still gangly and thin. His mother’s long embroidery needle, goblin-crafted never to bend or break, easily lifts the inner tumbler of the lock that secures the outer bolt. He does not need a key when he has goblin steel.

Tonight on the Solstice, Oriel still has her memories of her Mind Magic training. Together, they begin teaching the basics to Meraud, Erneis, and the fifteen children of Griffon’s Door who are kept locked in a separate chamber. Some are considered too old to be housed in the same small rooms as their parents. Others were orphaned by the sickness that took Godric’s mother and brother, or by the battle that took his father and grandmother. All of them swear an oath of fealty to Godric. He almost expected it of Oriel, Meraud, and Erneis, but not of the others. The eldest boy, Torold, who is fifteen, leads Aldous, Bevis, Udo, Sampson, Tomas, and Yon in the vows that young men take when serving their lord in the battles to come. Constance, fourteen years of age, does the same for Emma, Griselda, Selova, Nota, Ioetta, Honora, and Pavia.

The magic behind the vows makes Godric’s skin prickle as their words are judged to be true. “I don’t want any of you to die for me.”

“But the truth is that we might,” Aldous says, looking far too ancient for a boy of nine. “If we’re old enough to die, we’re old enough to pledge ourselves to our rightful lord.”

Godric doesn’t yet feel as if he’s earned their fealty, but magic made the decision for him. To argue with them would be to disrespect their choices. All Godric can do is make certain their faith is not misplaced.

It is harder the next night, when the loss of the Solstice brings back forgetfulness and the full strength of Wystan’s enchantment. Godric thinks on it before focusing his efforts on Oriel first, who agrees to trust him as he struggles to guide another through the lessons of Mind Magic. He realizes almost at once that if he had not been writing and repeating his grandmother’s lessons at night, he would not have succeeded at all.

Despite Oriel’s continued complaints about it being improper, they finally become friends. Godric knows that if Wystan had never done this, such would never have come to pass. Oriel’s expectations of how to serve an overlord, even as a fellow magician, are set along hard lines. Godric tells her she will simply have to suffer the idea of having an eorl for a friend, because he refuses to pretend otherwise. She rolls her eyes at him and threatens to curse him, which Godric considers a vast improvement.

The week after Imbolc, Oriel hesitantly admits that she remembers things are supposed to be different. Godric is hard-pressed not to cheer aloud. Instead, he kisses her, which startles them both. Oriel turns bright pink; Godric imagines he looks just as flustered.

“Uh—I’m really sorry,” Godric says, but then Oriel leans forward and kisses him again.

“So they will expect to see us together,” Oriel whispers in his ear, and then continues on with her tasks. Godric stands there like a complete idiot until Wystan barks at Godric to attend him for lessons.

As the days pass, Godric realizes that part of the problem is that these memories are always going to plague him. Whatever enchantment Wystan worked to convince so many that he was in the right, that Leofric was long dead—the effects are permanent. No one was ever meant to realize the truth.

Wystan’s cutting words of Godric’s failings chase him even into his dreams, and the castigations spoken after the battle in Augustus of 974 are particularly strong. Godric hates that the words feel like revealed secrets. He hates Wystan, and he despises what his uncle is doing to Griffon’s Door.

The hardest thing to recall is not the battle itself, not his father’s death, but the very end. Godric, Erneis, and Conon, last survivor of Leofric’s guard, are standing in a triangle with their boots pressed together, not daring to move but for breathing. There are arrows drawn on them by a circle of men, Englishmen and Danes both, just waiting for the reason to let them fly. Conon already has an arrow embedded in his left elbow for trying to pass cloth to Erneis for the bleeding gouge on his head.

The closer Wystan comes to him in this memory, the harder it is to hold onto details. His horse was a fine beast, not solid black but a very dark brown that glowed red in the morning sunlight. Expensive tack, but Erneis taught him horses as much as he taught Godric weapons, and Godric can see that the leather has been mended many times. Even magic can only do so much to prevent that sort of wear.

Godric remembers looking up into the face of a cold-eyed man and having a terrible, stomach-churning moment of thinking this was his father already returned from the afterlife, angry with Godric for not saving his life. Then the light changes and it becomes only the man’s features that are similar. His eyes are dull grey, not any shade of blue. His hair is dark brown and too long for a warrior to wear unbound. He dismounts and reveals that he is taller than Godric’s father, which makes Godric irrationally angry.

He stares up at this man without speaking. He has not yet dropped his wand; he only discarded the hilt of the short sword, shattered when it wisely gave way to a stronger bit of metal.

“Well, boy?” Wystan Grypusdor barks. His violet-blotched skin is marked by the pox, as if he couldn’t be bothered to cast the charms to prevent them; his nose was broken and set badly, giving it a twisted appearance. “Do you not honor your uncle?”

“I honor those who’ve _earned_ it,” Godric retorts. The cuff to his head sends him sprawling into the grass, but he still doesn’t loosen his hold on his wand. He doesn’t know what he could do with it, but he will not let it fall.

“And you, Weapons Master Erneis? Do you honor me?”

His uncle’s voice does not sound any less like a bark. Perhaps he always sounds like a dog on the verge of choking on a bone, Godric thinks.

Erneis ignores Wystan’s question. “If you kill me, there will be too many who will wonder why the guard of Griffon’s Door has been so utterly changed.”

“An intelligent man. There aren’t enough of you in our world. Betray me, and you will die.” Wystan turns to Conon. “You’ll do, then,” he says, and plunges a dagger straight into Conon’s heart before any of them can wonder what he means. Then Godric loses the memory, no matter what bits of Mind Magic he attempts. It makes him suspect that Conon’s death, the blood-letting, mark the beginning of Wystan’s enchantment.

One of Godric’s few comforts is that the grove rejects Wystan. He cannot find Griffon’s Door, cannot bend the Door to his vile whims. When his uncle orders Godric to lead him to the Door, Godric refuses. Godric is beaten afterwards, told that he is dishonoring his father’s memory. He is not being a proper Door Guardian, not when he denies Wystan access to one of the things the keep of Griffon’s Door is meant to protect.

Godric makes himself remain silent. No matter what his uncle says, no matter what his treacherous mind insists is true, Godric knows he is doing exactly as he should.

Instead of waging a war of words that would serve no purpose, Godric visits the tiny chapel in the darkness of the keep. It has been abandoned since Wystan took over Griffon’s Door. As far as Godric is aware, he is the only person to have ever returned to this room.

The whispered spell causes his single candle to alight, casting warm red light and deep shadows in the room. The cross that hung from the wall is gone, stripped of its precious stones and metals and then probably used for kindling. Godric has nothing against those who follow other paths, but his uncle Wystan is the first man he has ever known to be so viciously destructive when it comes to icons of the faith—especially as Wystan professes to be a Christian.

With the passage of Beltane, Oriel has begun helping him assist Meraud, Erneis, and their fifteen charges in Mind Magic. They have a long way to go, especially when none of their students have magic to assist them. There is still so much to do.

He is so tired.

Godric starts awake when Erneis settles down on his knees next to Godric. “Erneis?”

“Perhaps I am better at Mind Magic than I dared to hope,” Erneis murmurs. “I recalled our conversations of this past Summer and Winter Solstice, as well as our brief words during the Lencten Equinox. Do you often come to your father’s chapel?”

Godric fights back a yawn. “Sometimes.”

Erneis nods. “ _Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up._ ”

“Galatians?” Godric asks. The monks tried to teach him to memorize their holy book, but that doesn’t mean he did a very good job. He was often distracted.

Wait. What monks?

Godric chases after the memory and sighs when he loses it. He has no idea what that meant at all, but it makes him think of the blue stone.

“Galatians,” Erneis confirms. “I have often found it a comforting verse.”

Godric waits for Erneis to rise and depart again before he gazes down at the flame. The Almighty is said to be the fire and the light of all creation, the first flame to burn in the dark. “I will not give up,” he whispers, and blows out the candle.

 

*         *         *         *

 

Every night, Godric uses the embroidery needle to pick the lock on his door and free the others. Once Erneis helped him to realize the small chapel was abandoned, they began holding lessons there. The children learn quickly, quieting their thoughts and shielding their minds as fast as parched earth soaks up rain. Godric is grateful for that. He’s found himself to be a patient teacher, but they are all tired and scared. It makes tempers flare more easily, arguments more likely, and they cannot afford either. Godric does what he can to soothe the ruffled feathers of children, though attempting to calm Erneis and Meraud is baffling until he discovers that they found their own method of calming each other’s nerves.

“I didn’t want to know that,” Godric says, hands over his eyes as he sits on the pallet in his own tiny chamber. He’s relieved that the younger children were already returned to their sleeping chamber before Godric came back to realize that Meraud and Erneis have found another use for the chapel.

Oriel giggles and nudges Godric with her elbow. “They’re merely sharing their bed, Godric.”

“But I didn’t want to witness it!” Godric whines. She laughs aloud before catching herself, her hand slapping over her mouth to rein in the sound. “Besides, they forgot the bed.”

“That they did. Sex upon that rock cannot be comfortable,” Oriel says.

Godric would rather not be given further cause to imagine the details. “I hope they are—you know. Safe. I didn’t receive the proper lessons on how to—do so. That. Safely.”

“Oh.” Oriel scoots closer to Godric. “They both died too soon.”

Godric lowers his hands and nods. “Father always insisted I would not need the lessons for those spells until my twelfth birthday. Soon it will be my thirteenth, and…”

“And they are not here.” Oriel is quiet for a moment. “I know them,” she says. “I could—teach you.”

Godric glances at her in surprise, seeing the trepidation in Oriel’s eyes despite the poor light from his candle. “Are you offering to teach charms, or are you offering something else?”

“Perhaps both.” Oriel rests her head against his shoulder. “I’m lonely,” she admits in a soft whisper. “The man who held my heart rode out with your father in Augustus nearly two years ago. He did not return.”

“I’m sorry.” Godric swallows, trying not to let the enchantment cause hopelessness to settle in his heart. None can afford that, least of all he. “I did not know.”

“We hadn’t yet told anyone,” Oriel says. “Bryce wished to prove himself a steadfast part of your father’s guard before asking Father for my hand. We would not yet marry, not until my eighteenth birthday…but we were certain. We looked into each other’s eyes and at once knew each other’s hearts. Has that ever happened to you?”

Godric hesitates. “I can’t remember. Sometimes I think it must have, but this enchantment—there are people I cannot recall no matter how hard I’ve fought for those memories, and I don’t know why.”

Oriel nods. “It’s the same for me. I know that my mother died when I was younger, but I still have no memory of what befell my father. I’m certain he was still alive before Wystan came, but after—that is missing. I hope one day to know why.”

“I think, perhaps, until we know those answers…” Godric bites his lip. “I would be honored if you would teach me all I would need to know to bed a woman without dishonoring them, but I do not think we should bed one another. I never thought we would be friends at all, Oriel. I will not risk losing that friendship just to share my meager pallet with you.”

Oriel’s hand gently closes around his wrist. “You are a good man, Godric…so I will tell you in confidence that Constance will not turn you away from her bed if you seek her out.”

“Oriel!” Godric gasps, blushing, and she laughs. “If it is another’s company you seek without needing a marriage, I do believe Torold feels similarly,” he says in attempted revenge.

“He is rather fetching,” Oriel says musingly. Godric rolls his eyes and shoves her off his pallet. They fall asleep curled up together, though Godric’s sense of time rouses him an hour before dawn. He shakes Oriel awake to send her back to her chamber, snaps the locks into place on everyone’s doors, and then locks himself back inside his own small chamber. He gets another hour of sleep before the bolt is slammed open to announce that it’s dawn.

True to her word, Oriel does demonstrate for him all of the varying charms for lying with another, no matter their gender. Like the lessons she once gave him on Síðian, she is a strict teacher, not satisfied until he can cast them with perfection—even if they are currently only preventing ants from breeding. Godric protests learning the charms for sleeping with another man until she reminds him that he might have to teach these to another one day. It would be foolish to be ignorant of them. Godric never really wanted to know that much about the workings of anyone’s pintel but his own, but Oriel is merciless.

Given the rather vacant, pleased smile on Torold’s face for the next few evenings, Godric thinks Oriel had no mercy for him, either. At least Torold seems to have enjoyed it.

The day of his thirteenth birthday, Wystan is obligated to host a feast in honor of his nephew. Godric would much rather his uncle have ignored the day entirely. Since it is not an age of great importance, no one from beyond the realm of Griffon’s Door has been invited. Wystan and his men are the only ones allowed at table in the Great Hall aside from Godric and Erneis. Everyone else of Griffon’s Door is either serving for the feast, or told to remain in the dungeons.

Godric spends most of the feast filling a belt pouch with expanded space with every bit of food he can steal from the table. There has been no declaration of famine or shortages in England, but the amount of food being spread out among the servants and their families seems less than before. He suspects Erneis is doing the same. Perhaps in the kitchen, Meraud and Oriel have similar thoughts. All Godric knows is that he will not let his people starve while these thieves eat and drink until they can’t stand up on their own.

“Stop! Stop it!” Acur, one of Rychard’s cousins, has pinned Wenifred to the wall and has his hand up her skirt while trying to kiss her. Wenifred has her head turned away, frightened tears running down her face.

Godric takes a quick glance around, notices that everyone else is distracted, and slips Acur’s dagger from his belt sheath. “The lady Wenifred said no,” Godric whispers, and shoves Acur’s knife between his ribs while the drunken fool is still distracted by the act of trying to unlace Wenifred’s dress.

Wenifred screams as the dying body strikes the floor. Godric sighs and rolls his eyes as his uncle’s drunken soldiers advance on them. “Did you have to scream? He’s just _dead_ ,” Godric mutters as Wystan shoves his way through the crowd.

Uncle Wystan looks down at Acur, lying with the bloody dagger at his side, and then stares at Godric. “Explain.”

“There has been no rape in the halls of this keep since the time of my great-grandfather.” Godric is surprised at how quiet he sounds, but it is not fear in his voice. “I will not see it return here now.”

Wystan kicks over Acur’s body, which reveals he’d already shoved his own truis down. His wilting member is not only unimpressive, it’s showing signs of disease. “Idiot,” Wystan mutters.

“The boy killed Acur!” Pons yells, pointing at Godric.

“I have one rule!” Wystan suddenly shouts. “One thing you will not do! What is it, you useless drunken rabble?”

“Don’t…don’t directly curse God?” Georgius says in shaking hesitation.

Wystan strides over and cuffs Georgius in the head. “Aside from that!”

“We do not rape.” Rychard is staring at Godric as if evaluating a target. Godric stares back, unafraid. “Willing partners only, else you make our lord pay the fines for forcing yourself on a woman and fathering her bastard child!”

 _Of course_ , Godric thinks bitterly. It is not decency that keeps them from being so foul, but money and politics.

“We do not rape. If you wish to sully yourself with the willing, do so, but rape will bring the king’s justice upon all our heads!” Wystan points at Georgius. “Clean up the mess Acur has left us to deal with. Burn his body and bring whatever valuables remaining in his purse to me. You!” Wystan glares at Godric. “Take—this one—”

“Wenifred,” Godric supplies, trying not to clench his jaw in anger.

“Take Wenifred to the kitchens so that the other servants will see to her. Then you will come to my office. Do _not_ delay,” Wystan warns him, and then returns to the head of the table.

Godric helps Wenifred manage the stairs that go down to the kitchen. “You’re going to be all right.”

“But you won’t!” Wenifred protests through her sobs. “He’ll hurt you!”

“Better my being hurt than your being defiled,” Godric replies. He still doesn’t know if he killed anyone in Augustus of 974, so tonight may well have been his first death. He feels discouraged at taking another life, but that is all. He doesn’t think he’ll ever come to regret it. Others, perhaps, but not Acur.

Meraud, Edytha, and Uchered come rushing forward to claim Wenifred from him. Godric takes the opportunity to empty the food stolen from the banquet onto the servants’ table, watching as small hands immediately begin sorting through the treasures for equal sharing.

Godric leaves Wenifred in their protective company before climbing a different set of stairs. _His office_ , Godric thinks, anger finally stirring in his heart. _Not your office. That is my father’s office, and while it will one day be mine, it will_ never _be yours_!

He steps inside and shuts the door. “You wished to see me.”

Wystan narrows his eyes and then twitches his wand. Godric is shoved against the wall. He knocks the back of his head against the stone, and his breath leaves his lungs in a sudden, painful rush of air. “The only man who will dispense justice within these walls is _me_ ,” Wystan growls, advancing on Godric as Godric slides down the wall to sit on the floor.

He touches the back of his head to find a spot of blood on his fingers. “How was I to know that you would have concerned yourself, had I mentioned it to you?” Godric asks, careful to keep his eyes on Wystan’s boots. “You’ve never once said in my presence that you forbid your men to violate others.”

Wystan surprises Godric by grasping his chin and yanking Godric’s head up so that their eyes meet. “So little trust for me, nephew?”

Godric scowls, trying to free himself from Wystan’s hold. “Not in—not in all these years have you given me reason to!”

“Really?”

He gasps when he feels the cutting edge of someone else’s thoughts slicing into his mind. This is not what Mind Magic should feel like, and it almost leaves him unprepared to guard against it. If he hadn’t been practicing, hadn’t—

Godric slams a memory into Wystan’s path, letting him see tiny Godric play with older Leffeda. When Wystan goes around that memory, Godric presents him with a weary Leofric attempting to teach his small son Tafl, without much success. He keeps shoving Wystan memories of early childhood, uncertain what his uncle is looking for…

When he realizes it, it’s a lot harder to give Wystan what he seeks. Wystan is looking for the memories created by the enchantment: Godeva and Alfrid’s deaths years ago. Leofric’s death in battle not long after. Remembering Wystan telling him that Laguia is dead.

Wystan abruptly releases him. “Dwelling on the dead will not bring them back.”

“ _Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted_ ,” Godric quotes. His head rocks back when he’s slapped in the face, and he tastes blood almost at once.

“What nonsense is that?” Wystan asks, examining his hand as if looking for injury.

“I was not aware that the Almighty’s holy book was nonsense, Uncle Wystan,” Godric replies. He tries to sound innocent, but he can’t manage it. He’s too angry. He’s been angry for weeks, months—maybe from the very day all of this began, even if he can’t recall it. “It’s from the Book of Matthew.”

 _I don’t remember how I know that_ , Godric thinks while Wystan eyes him in disdain. _Perhaps it’s those mysterious monks again_.

Wystan steps back as Godric gets his feet underneath him again and stands up. Godric’s head is starting to ache, both from the wall and from the unwanted invasion of his mind. Perhaps his uncle does not believe in physical violations, but Wystan has no qualms about violating one’s thoughts.

“Never once have you sworn fealty to me,” Wystan says, startling Godric. “If you did so now, you would not be kept from your wand. You would carry it at all times, as a proper magician should, even if you are still untrained.”

Godric refuses to react to the way Wystan says “proper magician.” It’s meant to cut, meant to hurt. The enchantment makes him feel the pain, but it’s false pain.

He will not say to his uncle that he is the Steward of Griffon’s Door—not its Lord, and definitely not its Heir. Already they are watched too closely. Godric will not see them fail because his treacherous mouth opened at the wrong moment.

Instead, he repeats something Uncle Wystan says often. “Until I am a proper magician, I should not carry it, should I?”

Wystan narrows his eyes at Godric. “Get out. I do not wish to see you again until tomorrow at dinner.”

Godric dips his head in a near-mockery of a respectful bow and slips out of the office. Then he leans against the closed door, his heart hammering in his chest like a blacksmith in the midst of madness. He’s more certain than ever that Wystan means to kill him, but he can’t do it, not yet. He’s seen the evidence for himself.

Letters still arrive at the keep addressed to the young Lord Godric of Griffon’s Door. Wystan is forced to let Godric read those missives from the non-magical Eorl and Heads of Houses of Somerset, though Godric is only allowed to write innocent responses. Those letters are scrutinized by Wystan before the scrolls are returned by runner, not by messenger bird.

Godric has no idea if Wystan believes Godric to have enough brains in his head to recognize what he reads, or if he simply doesn’t care, but it doesn’t matter. Godric knows from those letters that his uncle Wystan has yet to persuade the others that he should rule as Magical Eorl. Even worse for Wystan Grypusdor, King Edward is convinced that Wystan should never hold the title. Godric’s life is secure for now, but only his. There are others in this keep, and it is still his duty to protect them.

 _And by leaving, how am I doing so_? Godric asks himself yet again. The answer is the same as the one given by Erneis, Oriel, and Meraud: Godric will save them by surviving, by living long enough to rid them of Wystan and reclaim Griffon’s Door by right of inheritance, magic, and blood.

That is the reason why Meraud and Oriel will stay in Griffon’s Door. Godric could not argue against their reasons, much as he wished to. Someone with the training to know enchantment from truth must remain to protect those who will linger here under Wystan’s foul graces, and it should be two who will not be suspected. Erneis is the one who will go, protecting Godric and his charges when they leave.

Tactics. Perception. Appearances. A child with no wand is judged weak. A magician with a wand is a danger no matter their age. The hammering of his heart does not slow, but calmness descends as he thinks on Brigands, on Tafl, on true tables with carved, animated figures acting out battles that Leofric once participated in. The demonstrations of weaknesses to be exploited. The ways in which perceived weaknesses are revealed as strengths.

Godric doesn’t think his father would have wanted him to learn the strength of those lessons in this manner, but he has. Now he understands. He blesses his father for his patience, and for the tutors his father so carefully chose for Godric’s instruction.

If he leaves Oriel in this place, he cannot leave her unprotected, and he cannot leave without his wand. He doesn’t yet know how to solve those problems without alerting Wystan as to their intentions, but he will. There is no choice—he must.

Constance joins him in the long hall that leads back to their small chambers. “The others have declared it a rest night, our way of celebrating the day of your birth,” she says in a soft murmur. “Our usual jailers are all drunk on poor wine and souring mead. Would you like to join me, Godric?”

Godric blinks at her a few times, trying to pull his thoughts away from plotting and planning. “What…what for?”

Constance smiles at him and tilts her head in a way that accentuates the curve of her lips. “Oriel tells me that you’ve mastered all of the proper charms, even when you have no wand of wood to assist you. I have my own ways of protecting myself. In light of that, I suppose you may join me for whatever you like.”

“Oh.” Godric stares at her. “I’ve…I’ve never, uh…”

“Nor have I. Given those who surround us, I’d rather it be with you than with someone I cannot trust.”

“Oh,” Godric says again. He supposes she is thinking of Wenifred—that they all are. Wystan and Rychard might be against rape, but that doesn’t mean the other soldiers will keep to that law. “Are you certain?”

Constance reaches out for his hand and pulls him in close. She smells like warm sweat and the launderer’s soap, the scent of lavender and mint helping to hide the hemp oil and lye. “Certain enough to know that whatever happens, my Lord Godric will see to it that I am safe.”

Kissing Constance is far less awkward than kissing Oriel. Thank God for that.

They do no more than that, pressing their clothed bodies together in curiosity while their hands roam and explore. The kissing is nice, but it feels far more like they’re clinging to each other, seeking to find light in what is beginning to feel like unceasing darkness.

 

*         *         *         *

 

If someone were to ask Godric later what it was like to survive in Griffon’s Door from the Summer Solstice of 976 to the Summer Solstice of 977, he would tell them of the famine that finally descended like a punishment from God. His people suffered as Wystan pushed them, used them, demanding they grow crops in soil that refused to allow them to flourish. Food is rationed to those who are servants while those who sit at Wystan’s table dine like royalty.

The rain and sunlight abandons them. A constant grey fog of wet drizzle settles over Griffon’s Door, not enough to relieve the dryness of the earth, but damp enough to bring illness. Godric would tell those who asked that it was magic itself in revolt, fighting against the way Wystan Grypusdor wished to warp it to serve his own ends.

Godric might speak of the way he, Erneis, and all of the adults capable of doing so gave up part or all of their meals as the famine worsened. Everything they can spare is given to the children of the keep, those who are last to be fed. They do their best to keep the little ones from succumbing to the sicknesses and disease that strikes when the health of the body begins to fail, and instead fall ill themselves.

It is never anything serious, bless the Almighty. Erneis is in a sour mood for weeks, but is not felled. Meraud refuses to be ill at all. Oriel and Godric’s magic help them to recover from maladies that might have stripped vitality from their very bones.

Wystan never suspects that Godric is passing on food. Godric thinks it is because the man could never comprehend the idea of doing the same for his own people. He’d rather they all starve, heedless of the fact that a household’s backbone is its servants and workers and families. Without them, the House is fallen.

He could tell them of the way a burgeoning feeling of despair began to saturate the keep, of how proud men started to walk with their shoulders bowed, their eyes on the earth at their feet. None of them were immune to it, not even Godric, though it also gave him an excuse not to look his hated uncle in the eyes. He is finally beginning to grow again, but barely eats enough food to keep up with the demands of his body. By the time of his birthday on the nineteenth of Iunius, he’s grown several inches, but is so thin he looks ill, all the time. Meraud frets endlessly, reminding him that he cannot continue to starve. Griffon’s Door can’t afford to lose her true lord.

Godric smiles and reminds her that he will not forsake those he swore to care for. Always, always there is a burning fire in his eyes that grows as the days pass.

He can even speak of the plan that slowly formed as possibilities were discussed and discarded. Even if Godric and Oriel were capable of taking so many with them in a single moment of Síðian, they cannot leave the keep that way. Oriel found out in the most painful manner that the wards on Griffon’s Door to prevent Síðian extend to the very edges of their lands. Their attempt to escape on foot would be doomed to failure. In the keep’s open fields, they would all be easy targets for the archers along the walls. There will have to be a great distraction if they’re to escape the lands of Griffon’s Door and seek shelter among the allies Godric and Leofric knew in earlier years.

Godric knows of these things because he is told of them. After their escape, he does not remember that entire year at all.

He awakens an hour before dawn on the Samhain, as is still his habit, and waits for the bolt to be thrown open for the day before going downstairs into the kitchens. Meraud is already there, beads of sweat standing out on her face as she punches down a rising lump of dough. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, Godric.” Meraud turns the dough and slides it back towards the fire so that it will rise again. “What brings you to my kitchen so early of a morning?”

“The matter of no one else being here, of course,” Godric says, catching Meraud’s attention. She frowns, gets out the next lump of dough waiting to be turned into bread, and bids for him to speak while she beats it into submission.

“I need one who can fetch the right sort of wood without being questioned,” Godric murmurs. “Ash and beech, in straight, thick lengths the size of a man’s arm. I need a woodcarver’s excellent knife, as I’m allowed no blade but the one I take meals with.”

Meraud stops beating the dough, gives him a hard look, and then turns it over to do so again. “You mean to replace your wand with a fake. He will know, Godric.”

“Not unless we leave such replacement until the very last night.”

Meraud nods and shoves that loaf of bread close to the fire to join the first one. “When must the task with the wood be performed?”

“As soon as possible.” Godric takes a small kitchen mallet and begins crushing a bowl of the season’s scant berries for her when she asks. “If that damned fool would open his purse, he would find we are surrounded by Houses rich in food from plentiful harvests.”

“But that would be to admit that Griffon’s Door is rejecting him.” Meraud nods in satisfaction at Godric’s work and claims the bowl. “Where will you take the others?”

Godric hesitates, hating what he must say. “I cannot tell you—no, don’t take offence.” He takes up the next of the breakfast tasks to ease Meraud’s work. It will leave him tired in the practice yard after breakfast, but when is he not tired of late? “Your Mind Magic is as strong as it can be for someone who is not magical, Meraud, but when Wystan asks you where we have gone, you must be able to tell him the absolute truth. _You_ _must not know_. If Wystan suspected you had even the faintest hint of our location, he would tear your mind apart in order to find what he sought. He would kill you. I will not see that happen. Not even Oriel will bear this secret.”

Meraud stops stirring whatever concoction she’s creating with the berries and stares at him. “You know what it is you will do, and you know when.”

Godric nods. “I do.”

“And you’re afraid.”

He nods again. “I am.”

Meraud puts her work aside long enough to embrace him. “Good. I would be truly concerned if you were confident and fearless.”

Godric is tired and slow in the practice yard, as he thought. By the time Rychard has mercy on him, Godric feels like a walking bruise. He is better with a sword than this, but Godric much prefers for Rychard and Wystan to think him as blundering a fool with a blade as Wystan thinks Godric to be with a wand.

He feels the burn of his lacking wand all the time, but better to be without it than see it lost. He learned patience at his father’s knee, even if the lesson was slow to take hold. He will be patient now, even when Wystan’s wand sings through the air, flinging curses that make it feel as if the flesh is being flayed from Godric’s bones. The castigation afterwards for his failure has become so commonplace that Godric scarcely notices it any longer. He is _nothing_ like his father or his mother, and never will be.

No, Godric agrees, which placates Wystan enough that he allows Godric to leave these pointless magical lessons early. Godric is nothing like Leofric, who let grief ensnare his thoughts when it was his younger brother’s canny ways he should have been concerned with. Godric is nothing like Godeva, who let her skills with a wand atrophy after her marriage, believing as she did that her charge of overseeing the running of the keep more important. These are traitorous thoughts, terrible thoughts, but Godric has forced himself to recognize that they are _true_ thoughts.

His father made a mistake, and though he still cannot recall that month with clarity, Godric is all but certain now that Leofric did not heed the warning of Wystan’s trap. Perhaps it was Laguia, who always had such an excellent eye. Perhaps Godric was the one to see the truth, hence his mother’s gift of her embroidery needle. It matters not; the result is the same.

Godric loved his mother, but he rarely saw her perform magic. He knows from his lessons with Laguia and Edda that a magician who ignores their gift will see their gift wither. Godric can feel that he is in danger of weakening in the same manner and performs wandless spells as often as he dares, even if they are as simple as changing the color of stones.

Alfrid was a baby, his magical core yet to truly be stirred by life, and Godric has made his peace with the fact that his brother’s survival was unlikely. Godeva was an adult and might have survived the sickness with her mind intact, her body strong, if she’d not had a magical core similar to the infant in arms.

Still it matters not. They are dead and there is no changing it, even if he now understands it.

If Godric survives this and lives to marry, he will not wed a magician content to run a keep and leave her magic to wither. Running the keep is for the Steward, the Chamberlain, and all the other heads of staff that see a household prosper. If his wife wishes to assist, so be it, but hopefully she will never be the type to set down her wand and forget to pick it up again. Even if he cannot marry for love of another, he will protect the one he pledges himself to—even if it means angering her with demands not to let her magic falter.

Godric spends the whole of his days during the hærfest season carefully ascertaining who in Griffon’s Door will remain loyal to him in his upcoming absence. If they are not yet ready to be loyal to Godric, he wants to know if they will at least remain loyal to the task of safeguarding the Door. He finds more who are willing than not. Those whose loyalty has been given to Wystan—he hates to do it, but Godric uses Mind Magic and the sharp push of his own magic to make them forget they have spoken.

Those who are loyal ask questions that Godric cannot answer. Where will he go? What will he do? How will he escape?

Godric only knows the answer to the last question. The other two must come afterwards.

Those who proclaim their loyalty understand what will happen in Godric’s absence, how harsh it may be, and what it will take to survive. Mothers and fathers with small children beg Godric to take their youngest with him.

That nearly causes Godric to balk at the difficulty, but they’re correct. Even those who are still nursing at their mother’s breast will be in danger due to this magical famine caused by Wystan’s greed. If he leaves them here, he leaves them to die.

His fifteen charges who know their Mind Magic hear the number of children Godric says they must bring with them, and they do not hesitate. The young ones are all small enough to be carried, even if they must walk for miles. Godric reassures them that they will not need to walk for miles, but he cannot yet tell them more. Those who have become his friends accept this with serious expressions and grim smiles.

Godric’s hærfest nights are spent with a knife and a length of ash. It’s harder to carve a replica of his wand when the magic of the grove and the Door is not humming beneath his skin, helping to guide his blade. What once took him the time of twelve hours takes him the whole of two weeks before Godric considers it the best work that he is capable of. He lowers it to the stone and then sits in place, shaking, until the feel of panic has gone. Then he touches his finger to the wood, whispering under his breath, prayer and spell both. The scarlet lines that make his wand so interesting to look at slowly bleed their way across the false wand, following the striations in the ash wood.

Making a copy of Oriel’s wand is much easier in comparison to carving that wing and its feathery details. Beech is an excellent wood to work with, and the mellow golden color is soothing on his eyes. He shows the finished work to Oriel at the end of the next week, allowing her to point out details that he missed. Mind Magic allowed him to recall much of its appearance, but Oriel was most often holding it, hiding things from his eye.

Godric shows it to her again a few days later once those details have been added. “It’s an excellent match, Godric,” Oriel murmurs, tilting the wand from side to side in her hand. “The weight is not right, not when it lacks a core…but the appearance. That will do nicely.” She clenches her hand around the false wand. “Godric. There is something I must say to you.”

“Then say it. You know I will listen.”

“Will you?” Oriel asks, but does not seem to expect an answer. “You’ve grown much in these past years, and none of it kind at all. You often keep your own counsel.” She lowers the false wand without letting him respond. “I am starting to suspect that I should accompany you.”

Godric frowns. “But you’re not certain.”

Oriel shakes her head. “No, I’m not. I’ve considered the matter carefully, Godric. I have no wish to leave Meraud here on her own. I know how difficult her task will be without me, just as I know how difficult it would be even were I here to assist. I don’t know if this is my own desire to escape, or if it is magic calling to me.”

Godric considers it before holding out his hand. Oriel clasps it without hesitation, though she bites her lip. “You’ll know on that day,” he says, reading magic in her heart the same way he can see magic within the land. “I don’t know why, and I do not know what answer it will be. I would prepare for both.”

“But which day, Godric?” Oriel asks, looking frustrated. “How am I to prepare if I do not know?”

He is fourteen, the age of magical majority in Briton. By law, he can seek out an apprenticeship. His uncle Wystan is under no obligation to provide one, and Godric knows he will not even make the attempt. A nephew with an apprenticeship is a nephew capable of challenging Wystan’s control…which is exactly what Godric plans to do. It’s a long road, longer than he’d prefer, but it is the way things must be.

“When that day comes, I will tell you at dawn.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Halted before it's worse) sexual assault of a woman


	7. Guardian Fire of the South

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What right do you have to quote from the Lord’s book?”
> 
> “I am Saxon. I am Briton. I am _Roman_. Others forget these things, but I do not."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cheer-reader beta'd but otherwise only beta'd by me, soooo yep, if you find errors, totally my fault.

When winter’s chill creeps into the stone, there is far less warmth to beat it back. What scant wood and peat there is to collect is devoted to Wystan and those loyal to him. The rest goes to the kitchen for the cooking fires. The large stone hearths that are meant to heat the lower levels remain empty. Their only light comes from the candles they make from the tallow carefully caught from every animal roasted over the pits during the long year. Wicks are woven from the multitude of loose threads pulled from their clothes. Some braver souls dared the beehives along the outer edges of the grove and brought back beeswax to make the harder, long-lasting candles that burn clear and sweet. The rest of their warmth comes from what blankets they own and the heat of their own bodies.

Godric gives up on the idea of sleeping alone in his own chamber and invites their fifteen charges to join him for warmth. Oriel and Torold’s pallet takes up one corner of his room as they curl up together beneath Torold’s only remaining luxury, a blanket made of pieced together deer hide lined with soft fur. Godric had one of those until their second year, when he split it along four lines to give to the youngest of the children they watch over.

His remaining quilt was made by his mother and meant to cover a bed much larger than a meager pallet. He shares it with any who crawl beneath, seeking warmth. Young Bevis sometimes joins him, an undersized, shivering lump that Godric will wrap up like he’s making a butterfly’s cocoon until the shivering eases. The girls often sleep in a pile of limbs on the other side of Godric’s chamber, with hardly enough room remaining for someone to leave the room to visit the privy. The other boys decide to remain in their original chamber, saying it’s to allay suspicion as to why Godric suddenly sleeps in so much feminine company.

Sometimes Emma, Constance, and Nota join him when the others do not. Godric doesn’t think on it at first when Constance resumes her habit of kissing him, but one night when the others have fallen asleep, she unlaces his truis and pulls up her skirts in smiling invitation. “You’re still certain?” he asks, so shocked that he forgets to keep his voice down. Emma reaches over and slaps him in the arm without bothering to wake for the rebuke.

“I’m older than you are. Of course I am,” Constance whispers, grinning. “I’ve consumed what I must to prevent a child, but the charms would not be amiss. If you can cast them while wandless—well. Perhaps only the wooden wand is lacking.”

Godric snorts out a quiet laugh and then rolls them over until they’re free of Emma and Nota’s sleeping forms, and Constance is now astride him. “You realize I might not—”

“I did not cause you to spend yourself once this evening for no reason,” Constance retorts dryly, and then grabs Godric at the base of his shaft to lower herself down. That act alone feels so good Godric thinks his toes might be curling in the wrong sarding direction. Being sheathed in another’s warmth makes him temporarily forget that they’re surrounded by icy stone.

Godric never asks, but often finds himself repeating the act not only with Constance, but Emma and Nota as well, though it’s never all of them together. Godric doesn’t think he would turn down the opportunity if it were granted, but the other girls don’t like sharing him. He has no sarding idea what to make of that at all, though Oriel laughs and tells Godric that he must be doing _something_ correctly if the other three wish for his devoted attention.

Oriel does ask if he would consider the same sort of arrangement with Griselda, Selova, Pavia, Honora, and Ioetta, but Godric is quick to shake his head. Constance is sixteen, Emma fifteen, and Nota fourteen. They’re old enough to remember when things were better, different—safer. The others are not. They deserve the right to see the world as it should be before making the decision to share their body with another. Besides, he strongly feels that Ioetta, Pavia, and Honora are too young.

Oriel stares at him after that particular rant. “Even had Alfrid lived, it is you who would be Magical Eorl over Somerset, Godric,” she says softly, taking his hand before he can protest. “Your father was a good man, but I cannot hear him in my thoughts professing to protect those younger than himself in the same way.”

“Alfrid would have been—”

“Raised by Wystan to do horrible things,” Oriel interrupts him, and Godric feels his blood turn to ice.

She’s right. Alfrid would have been swept under Wystan’s wing. Wystan would not need to raise and then murder the Heir to Griffon’s Door, not with the younger Heir raised to trust in their uncle, obeying him in all things and thinking his counsel wise beyond measure.

Godric tries several times to speak and can finally only manage to say, “Ianuarius.” Oriel nods her understanding and holds him until he stops shaking.

The whole of December, Godric hears the crude whispers about “the boy” suddenly learning of a good _hore_ and his ears burn—not with embarrassment, but with rage. He wonders if the undereducated, vicious fools would say the same of their own daughters if they had to lie upon cold stone every night, hoping to stay warm enough to wake again in the morning.

The service for Christmastide at the Givelcestre church makes Godric vow to see Fraunce buried in an unmarked grave. How dare that man speak of his uncle Wystan’s greatness while his people starve? How _dare_ he use the word of the Almighty to justify such suffering?

“You again,” Fraunce says when Godric approaches him after the service. Godric’s hands are clenched in tight fists at his sides, white-knuckled with suppressed rage. “And what particular bit of humor will you grant me today?”

Godric swallows and repeats the verse in a soft voice that his uncle will not overhear. “ _For the one in authority is God’s servant for your good. But if you do wrong, be afraid, for rulers do not bear the sword for no reason. They are God’s servants, agents of wrath to bring punishment on the wrongdoer._ ” He takes a deep breath. “Do not forget those words, hateful stick of a man.”

“From the Book of the Romans.” Fraunce sneers at him. “What right do you have to quote from the Lord’s book?”

“I am Saxon. I am Briton. I am _Roman_ ,” Godric hisses back. For a brief moment, he thinks he can see sparks of brilliant scarlet in the air between them. “Others forget these things, but I do not. Joyous Christmastide to you, and enjoy it, but remember that you do not know which of those to come will be your last.”

The Christmas Feast is yet another rare time when Wystan’s men drink and eat to such excess that there may well be no one guarding the keep at all. Godric dares to sit upon the upper wall that night, the first time he can recall doing so since before his father’s death. Once his eyes adjust to the lack of torchlight, the stars and a bit of moonlight are enough to reveal far too much. The fields surrounding the keep will offer no cover at all.

Laguia taught him no spell for hiding. Perhaps she meant to, but the opportunity was taken. Perhaps she didn’t know one at all.

Latin. He’ll need Latin for such a thing. Godric knows himself well enough that he won’t feel the words in English deeply enough to cast a proper spell, even with his wand back in his hand.

“ _Invisibilis_ ,” Godric mutters. Unseen. No, that won’t do, not on its own. It isn’t specific enough. “We must be invisible to their eyes, not merely unseen.”

He sits up and flexes his fingers, as if holding onto the wand still locked away in Wystan’s office. “Invisibilis oculos vestri—no. You know how the declension works, fool,” he mutters. “Invisible to the eyes.”

Godric picks up a loose bit of crumbling mortar from the wall and holds it up in his palm. If he can turn a stone a different color, then hiding one from sight should be no challenge at all.

It cannot. He won’t allow it to be. “Invisibilia in oculis vestris.”

The stone disappears, though Godric can still feel its weight in his palm. He considers the matter before throwing it along the stone walk that borders the wall. It clatters, but it isn’t a sharp sound at all. It’s more as if he tossed a stone muffled by cloth.

Godric ignores the pounding of his heart, the anxiety and excitement eating at him. There is but one thing left to do.

He doesn’t sleep at all the first night of the new year. That might prove to be a mistake, but he can’t. Not even the heat of so many warm bodies in his chamber lulls him. His head is too full, too wary. Too _aware_.

This day has significance only to him. He is the only one left in this keep who understands what it means, even if the true strength of it will not be felt until night falls.

“Today,” he whispers to Oriel as he passes her in the hall. Oriel doesn’t make a sound, but suddenly grasps her basket of soiled laundry so tightly in her arms that the woven rushes crackle and snap.

Godric is expected in the practice yard, just as he is every other day when they are not expected in the church. He cannot afford for Rychard to beat him into submission today, so he dares what he has not before. He fights back.

Rychard gives him a stunned look as his sword flies from his hands to land point down in the dirt a few feet away. “Are you finally learning something, whelp?”

Godric lowers his sword, feeling his arms shake in reaction. He just disarmed a man for the first time. His bouts with Erneis do not count; Erneis always sought to teach, not pummel him into the ground. “Perhaps God decided that he has seen me lose too often, and made your sword heavier than mine?”

Rychard laughs and retrieves his blade. “Go away, boy.”

“Of course,” Godric says politely, but the scrape of blade on stone warns him. He doesn’t turn in time to stop the first slice of Rychard’s blade scoring the back of his leg, but he does catch Rychard’s sword with his. He twists his blade to loosen Rychard’s grip as he lifts their swords into the air, and then uses all of his strength to slam Rychard’s blade down. Rychard’s sword falls from his hands to clatter onto the stone.

Godric is not aware of the fury marking his face; all he feels is the same sort of cold rage that filled his heart when he confronted the stick-priest. “ _I_ _n due time their foot will slip; their day of disaster is near and their doom rushes upon them_,”[Godric growls. “The more you attack those who’ve trusted you at their back, the faster you will see it.” He points his sword at Rychard’s unprotected chest. “Pick it up and face me properly, or by all the sarding hills in England, leave me in peace!”

Rychard is giving him that same evaluating stare he once offered over Acur’s cooling corpse. “You should take care, boy. You have grown, but you are not yet a man.”

“I’m man enough to know that you only strike at another’s back in battle,” Godric retorts. “In these yards, we are all allies. Or do you not think of us as such? We’re nearly kin, you and I.”

Godric fights a mad grin as Rychard hesitates. To admit that he thinks of them as the enemy would be an error that Wystan would not forgive, but Rychard can’t bear the idea of calling Godric an ally.

“I will think twice before I offer such insult,” Rychard finally decides to say. “Sheathe your weapon and put it away, boy.”

Godric cleans grime and dust from the sword’s blade with a bit of dirty cloth before he sheathes the blade. “Not today, _cousin_ ,” he says, and leaves the yard with the sword slung over his back. Rychard does not call him back, and none of his uncle’s soldiers move to stop him. Many families of Griffon’s Door linger around the yard to watch when Godric is present. Perhaps Rychard recognizes that too many might question why their young Lord has been refused the sword he just earned the right to wear.

Wystan must have been warned. When Godric arrives for the pitiful lessons in magic that Wystan offers, he eyes the sword and frowns. “Tomorrow it will be me you face. You will continue to carry that blade only if you succeed in besting me. Once will be sufficient, but once is all I will ever grant you.”

Godric offers him a slight bow, too low to be considered mocking, but not deep enough for true respect. “Once will be all that I ever need, Uncle.”

Wystan does not look impressed. “Take that off so that you may take up your wand.”

The magic lesson is quickly revealed to be nothing more than revenge for Godric’s stunt with the blade. _Now_ he feels pain from the tips of his toes to the ends of his hair.

Godric makes himself move as if there is no discomfort at all when he returns his wand to the cupboard before picking up sword, sheath, and belt. “I will see you at supper, Uncle,” Godric says, and leaves while Wystan is still scowling at him.

Godric goes downstairs to his father’s chapel. He drops the sheathed sword on the floor before kneeling beside it, waiting.

It doesn’t take long before the others trickle in, one at a time as they slip away from their chores, tasks, and harsh taskmasters. “The sword,” Erneis murmurs. “I had wondered what you meant when you said to watch for a sword.”

“I meant it literally.” Godric coughs when his voice sounds too dry. His uncle’s hexes and curses cut nearly as deeply as his words. “Tonight.”

“Tonight,” the others echo, shifting nervously or whispering sudden prayers under their breath.

Godric runs his thumb along the junction of hand and left middle finger, suddenly feeling the absence of his family ring even if he couldn’t wear it at age eleven. “I will release you at our usual time tonight. You already know everything you’re meant to do afterwards. When that is done, come to my chamber. We’ll depart from there.”

“It’s going to be so difficult,” Selova whispers. “What if we get it wrong?”

“No fear, girl,” Erneis says in a stern voice. “ _We are hard-pressed on every side, but not crushed; confounded, but not in despair; oppressed, but not abandoned, struck down, but not destroyed_. Learn your Corinthians when you’re away from this place. The Lord’s book is good for the soul.”

“And what of me?” Oriel asks after the others depart. “I still cannot say.”

“I’ll know when I touch your wand,” Godric replies. Oriel inclines her head and leaves him to his thoughts. He’s glad; he needs the silence. Once they’re away from Griffon’s Door, he has no idea how long it will be until he sees his home again. Godric would like to absorb the feel of it, the recognition of stone that calls to his blood, the better to hold it close to his heart.

Godric ignores the staring of the other men at Wystan’s table during supper. His uncle lets the rude whispers and threats continue until after the first course is served before he stands. “Nephew, it is impolite to wear any blade to the table but the one we eat with.”

“And leave it unguarded for one of your thieving soldiers to steal? I will not.”

Wystan’s face darkens from blotchy pale to unfortunate violet. “You dare to accuse my men of theft, nephew?”

Godric smiles. “Considering that two of your men hold things that rightfully belong to me? Yes, I do accuse them.”

Wystan glowers at him, which does not improve his appearance. “Who, then? I do hope you are not referring to me.”

“You?” Godric lifts the fragile boot knife he’s been taking meals with for three years and strikes down hard, pinning Pons’s hand to the table. While Pons is shrieking, Godric picks up the longer, goblin-crafted blade that Pons dropped in his hurry to tend his stuck hand. “No, Uncle. Not you. Pons, however, has been using something of mine for quite some time now. I tire of seeing it misused, and have chosen to take it back.”

Pons yanks at the fragile knife and succeeds only in removing the wooden hilt from the tangi. He bleats anew as he realizes his hand is still pinned to the table by the rest of the blade.

Godric sighs and retrieves the original sheath for his boot knife from Pons’s belt while the idiot tries to figure out how to grasp a blade that no longer has a handle. “Unless you object, Uncle?” he asks, wide-eyed and innocent.

Wystan stares at him, narrow-eyed. “You mentioned two items, nephew.”

“I did, yes.” Godric gets up from the table, though he keeps the unsheathed knife in his right hand as he makes his way around the table. He stops in front of Rychard and holds out his left hand, palm up. “Don’t make me ask you for it. I know you hold it, and we both know that you cannot wear it. The magic of Griffon’s Door will not let you.”

“Whelp—” Rychard begins to bluster, but Wystan interrupts him.

“Give it to him, Rychard,” Wystan orders. “I have been wondering where this particular item had gone. If I’d known before now, it would be in _my_ hands, you utter fool. Had you showed it to anyone beyond these walls, they would have killed you for your theft of a House’s emblem.”

Wystan raises an eyebrow when Rychard doesn’t move. “Now, Cousin. Do not keep my nephew waiting, not when he is being so polite in the matter of this…theft.”

Rychard growls and yanks at the leather cord around his neck, pulling it free and almost throwing it into Godric’s outstretched hand. “Are you satisfied, boy?”

Godric holds up the cord, watching as the silver band with its gold etching turns until the seal of his father’s family appears. The griffon rears in front of an oak tree, reflecting the torchlight. “I am satisfied. Thank you for the return of my property. Cousin.”

Rychard growls out something that could be interpreted in a dozen ways as Godric returns to his seat. Once he is seated, the loud chaos in the room slowly resumes, and Godric breaks out in a cold sweat. He risked so much to do that, but unlike the display with the knife, he had no choice. He must bear something that marks him as the rightful Heir to Griffon’s Door, even if he does not yet know why it’s so important. King Edward would recognize him at once.

Godric removes the ring from the dirty leather cord and slides it onto the middle finger of his left hand. The metal grows warm, changing its shape until the fit of the ring is snug rather than loose.

His eyes sting with tears that he will not allow to fall. He’s owned this ring since he was old enough to understand its importance, though always before, he had to wear it on a cord around his neck. King Edgar might have been fooled into legitimizing Wystan Grypusdor’s non-magical claim, but this ring would not mold itself to Godric’s finger unless magic recognized him as the current Lord of Griffon’s Door.

On the strength of this alone, Godric could challenge Wystan for the right to rule…and he would lose.

He cannot do that, not yet. Soon, but the time is not now.

It seems to take forever before the bustle of men leaving the hall fills his ears. Before Godric can rise from his seat, Wystan’s hand comes down in a bruising grip on Godric’s shoulder. “It means nothing, Godric. You know this. You will never be ready to rule Griffon’s Door as well as your father until you can raise your wand to me like a proper magician.”

Godric bites back a smile. “But what if I were to rule Griffon’s Door better than my father, Uncle?”

Wystan laughs in his hoarse, unkind way and leaves the Great Hall, though the feel of his hand on Godric’s shoulder lingers. Godric wipes at his tunic to rid himself of the impression of cold fingers before rising. Servants are entering the room to clean the tables. Many of them pause at the sight of the knife at his waist, the sword on his back. Some notice the ring on his hand, and after quick darting glances to ensure no one witnesses the act, incline their heads in recognition of their true lord.

Pons is still sitting in his chair, weeping as he stares at his trapped hand. “You realize all that you need to do is lift your hand to free it, yes?” Godric asks, curious.

“The blade widens and thickens. It will hurt,” Pons whimpers.

“Life hurts,” Godric replies, but can’t find it in his heart to leave the man trapped here. He hefts one of the heavy pewter cups that the soldiers favor and strikes the blade hard, shearing the weak metal in half. “There. Now you only have to contend with the lower half of the blade.”

Pons blinks up at him in watery astonishment. “Th-thank you, my Lord—”

“Just be certain that a competent healer looks at your hand afterwards, follow their instructions, and keep the wound clean,” Godric says. “And don’t go to the healer my uncle employs for your fellow soldiers. They’re sarding terrible at what they do. If you wish to keep your hand, ask Meraud who you should befriend, and be prepared to pay well for it.” He leaves with Pons still stammering out a thank-you, not willing to hear the words from one of the men who helped to slaughter his family.

Godric surveys his small chamber when he returns to it, closing his door against the curious. He is already wearing his best clothing, a requirement of eating in the Great Hall. He strips naked, replacing his clothing with thick cotton truis, two sets of socks, the boots he’s made to wear in the practice yard, meant for rough work rather than fine appearances, a long cotton shirt with a padded linen tunic to cover it, and the fur-lined woolen cloak he’s all but outgrown. Nerves will serve to keep him warm when the cold outside might otherwise leech the heat from his bones.

The quilt Godeva made has been repaired often now by his own hands and his mother’s embroidery needle, though Godric often had to use magic to change the color of the scrounged thread to match her original work. His embroidery is not nearly as fine as Godeva’s, but he couldn’t stand the idea of seeing the quilt turn to rags. He folds it carefully until it is still long, but no wider than his forearm. The quilt becomes a carefully rolled bundle that holds the clothing he just removed: black linen shirt, black silk tunic that falls to his ankles—too long for his preference—black silk truis, black woolen cloak, and fine leather boots. He is sick of wearing black, the color his uncle Wystan’s chose when his House rejected him. Godric plans to sell the valuable silk at first opportunity, replacing it with the dark scarlet he once fell in love with in—

Rome. It was Rome.

Godric pauses in the midst of tying the bundle closed with strips of an old shirt. He’d thought to say another city’s name at first, though it would not have been correct. Eidyn Buhr. When would he have seen a city so far to the north, and one held by Alba, no less?

A long strand of leather stolen from the tanner’s scraps makes a handy sling for Godric to carry the small bundle on his back. After retrieving a lone stick of scarlet wax, the false wand, the embroidery needle, and the blue stone from the hiding place beneath his pallet, there is nothing left. None of his other ragged clothes are worth taking; he is already wearing dagger, ring, and sword. He lies down on his pallet, uses the bundled quilt as a pillow, and lets his breathing become deep and calm.

The sound of the bolt slamming home wakes him. Godric jerks his eyes open but doesn’t move until the echo of the soldier’s footsteps is gone. Then he rolls to his feet, using the embroidery needle to pick the outer lock with the ease of long practice. He leaves his quilted bundle behind in his closed chamber and goes to seek out the Chamberlain of Griffon’s Door.

Richessa pushes her blonde hair away from her face and then squeaks when she notices him peering around the wall. “What took so long?”

“I did have to wait until it was time to pretend to be locked away for the night, Richessa.”

“Yes. Yes, you’re right. I’m sorry.” Richessa gulps and then puts her finger to her lips, signaling for silence.

Godric follows her through the quiet halls and up two flights of stairs until they reach his uncle’s office, the room that was once solely his father’s domain. Richessa does not retrieve her entire keyring from her belt pouch. There is only one key, which she presents to Godric.

“Why?” he asks, staring at the bit of iron without yet putting it to the lock barring the way.

“I thought it best for those of us remaining behind if his Lordship—” Richessa makes a face and spits on the floor “—believed that you stole the key for this room from me. Then he will not seek answers from us. Oh, and you’ll have to hit me,” she adds, grinning. “It should be much easier now that you’ve a heavy sword hilt to swing at my face.”

“You wish for me to hit you.” Godric rubs at the bridge of his nose and reminds himself that once upon a time, he was far more aware of the fact that Griffon’s Door was home to mad people, himself included. “Very well.” He doesn’t warn her; if he had, she would have raised her arms to fend off the blow. The blue stone clenched in his fist is just as effective as a sword hilt, but gives him more control on where he strikes her.

Richessa trusts Godric. Wystan is clever; he would see defensive wounds as a reason to suspect her.

Godric catches Richessa before she can fall, not wanting to see her sprawled upon the floor. He pulls her limp body down the hall and around the corner, leaving her in the shadow of a stairwell that sees little use until the servants need it in the morning. After making certain one more time that Richessa breathes easily, Godric whispers an apology and darts back to the office.

Wystan also guards the lock with magic, but this is not his home. Godric stabs the tip of his finger with his reclaimed knife and smears the hasp before inserting the key, which glows in recognition of the keep’s true Lord. Godric catches the lock and holds onto it as he pushes open the heavy oak door.

He closes the door and places the heavy iron lock on the table where Godric once played Brigands and Tafl with his father. There are no protective spells on the cupboard that holds the stolen wands.

Godric knows the moment he touches Oriel’s wand that she is meant to accompany him. He doesn’t know why, but he will not be arguing with magic, especially not today. He takes up her wand and replaces it with the false bit of beech, glad to see that the looping symbol that is carved along its length is a perfect match to the original.

After tucking Oriel’s wand into his belt, Godric picks up his wand. Scarlet sparks appear at its tip, throwing color into the sullen darkness of the room. His heart soars in his chest. He meant for nothing to happen, and yet it did. Godric chooses to believe it a sign that all will be well, that everything they undertake tonight will succeed.

He puts the false ash wand next to the false beech wand and closes the cupboard. The lock is retrieved, the office door sealed against intruders once more. Godric keeps his wand in his hand, alert for those he might have to stun in order to secure their escape.

When he passes through the kitchen, Godric tosses the office key into the refuse pile that has yet to be shoveled up and taken away for the hogs. His uncle can have the joy of seeking it out.

In his chamber, everyone has gathered to wait for him, including Meraud, who embraces him before hurrying from the room. Godric faces the others, feeling a return of his earlier sense of nervous elation. Torold, Tomas, Emma, Constance, Nota, Sampson, Yon, Udo, and Selova are all carrying infants, some of them big enough to be toddling around on their own. Aldous, Griselda, Bevis, Ioetta, Honora, and Pavia are carrying rocks and small supper knives in their hands. Simple bundles are sling over their backs, tied with leather cord. Erneis has no bundle, but a quiver full of arrows and a bow ready to be notched; his naked sword is in his hand.

Godric holds out Oriel’s wand. “Yes.”

Oriel accepts her wand with a wan smile and then plucks at the leather cord crossing her breast. “I’m glad I arrived prepared to leave, then.”

“How will we get out?” Torold asks. “I’ve been on the walls when forced to participate in the night watches. They’ll see us, Godric.”

“They will not.” Godric glances around and realizes that all nine of the infants are sleeping. “How did—”

“The healer mixed up a large batch of sleeping draught for a number of infants who all came down feverish and ill on the same evening,” Constance says in a dry voice. “Such a strange coincidence.”

“But it will not last long,” Emma reminds them. “We must hurry.”

Godric holds up his wand. “I am about to make every single one of us invisible to the eyes of others—and yes, that includes our own eyes. Once I’ve done so, you’re to leave this keep and make your way to the grove.”

“The—the grove?” Oriel stops caressing her returned wand and stares at him. “We’ll be trapped there!”

Godric gives her a stern look. “You said you trusted me. You must. You _must_ trust me, or this will not work. Do not go to the grove unless you do. Do you understand? All of you?”

“You’re the Lord of Griffon’s Door,” Pavia says in a serious little voice. “Of course we do.”

Godric nods, but he’ll know who is true to their word soon enough. “Hold still. I have no idea what this feels like.” Then he is casting the spell, _Invisibilia in oculis vestris_ , over and over again, until he’s turned twenty-six people invisible. If he could not hear them breathing, he’d think himself alone in the room. Then he casts the spell upon himself. It’s like a brief touch of cold water to his head and nothing more, but when he holds out his arm, he sees nothing.

He opens the door. “Remember: go to the grove, but go no further than the first widening of the path.” He waits until the chamber is utterly silent before following them.

It’s so cold within the lower levels of the keep that it always surprises Godric to step out into the yard and find it colder still. The harsh breath from his mouth fogs in the air; he quickly breathes through his nose to hide that telltale sign. No guards cry out a warning as he crosses the yard. There is no one to block his path.

The doors that bar the keep against nighttime raiders have already been opened, but they hang so close together it appears as if they’re still shut. Godric can almost smell magic in the air and realizes that Oriel must have been wise enough to silence the iron hinges. He pushes the door open and then closes it again, waiting.

When he casts the time charm and discovers fifteen minutes have passed, Godric realizes he must have been the last to leave the keep. He uses magic to lift the great oak beam and settles it back into place to bar the door, not satisfied until he hears the gentle thump of it coming to rest in the iron slots.

 _Now_. _Run_.

The grove is not far from the keep meant to guard it, but by the time Godric passes through the first trees and steps onto the path leading onwards, there is a stitch in his side and he is breathing in harsh gasps. He isn’t used to running any longer. That is yet another thing he will change when they are free of this place.

Godric does not stop running until he comes to the first widening of the path, the first place where the grove will play tricks on the unwary. He leans over and rests his hands on his knees, gasping for breath until he no longer feels like he’s going to be ill.

Latin. He needs the other Latin phrase. _Patere Conspectibus_ —no, that is if he were to lift this spell one person at a time. That takes too long. “ _Visibilis ad oculos omnis_!”[3]

“That is such a cheat,” Oriel declares in apparent disgust as they all become visible at once.

“To cheat and survive is not dishonorable in the slightest,” Godric retorts, straightening in place but still clutching his side. “We need to go—”

The quiet of the night is broken by the baying of Wystan’s hunting hounds.

“No,” Udo whispers, eyes wide with fright. “How could they know?”

“We weren’t _seen_!” Ioetta wails.

Nota sighs in resignation. “This would be the night that the ugly pintel rises from his bed with the urge to pace his own office.”

“Or they found Richessa,” Godric mutters. “Come. We don’t have time to linger so close to the outer edge of the grove.”

“You’ll have more time than you think.” Erneis steps away from the others and bows low before Godric. “My Lord Godric. Allow me to perform my task, one last time.”

Godric glares at him. “You don’t need to! Once we’re further into the grove, they won’t find us.”

“You’re wrong. They may yet be able to do so,” Erneis says quietly. “I have overheard Wystan and his cousin speak on the matter more than once. Magic will never allow your uncle to find Griffon’s Door itself, but Wystan has been slowly conquering the lesser magical tricks of the maze. They might still catch you upon the path if you have not yet safely reached the Door. That is something I will not allow.”

“But—”

“Have you ever escorted so many to the Door?” Erneis asks, and Godric slams his mouth closed. “I thought not. You have no idea how long that task will take. I don’t know what it is you hope to find at the Door itself, but I will make certain you arrive there in safety.”

Godric flings himself into Erneis’s arms. “This is not how your tale is meant to end.”

“Only the Almighty can say that. Not you. Not myself.” Erneis holds him, still strong despite the weight that has dropped from his large, proud body. “It is my duty to guard your back, and it is an honor to do so. Save the children of Griffon’s Door, my Lord Godric. Griffon’s Door and all of Somerset will need you upon your return.”

Godric holds out his arm, his gut twisting when Erneis clasps it. “I am not your lord, Weapons Master Erneis, but your friend.”

Erneis smiles. “My friend, you are both. Go now. I will not let them take one step beyond this place while there is breath in my body to prevent it.”

Godric refuses to say farewell. He lost his mother, brother, father, and grandmother without being granted the opportunity, and now something within him rebels at the thought. “May God see your arrows fly true, and may He be waiting for you when Death comes for one so brave.”

“Go,” Erneis repeats, but his eyes are bright with pleasure at Godric’s parting words. “You’ve been my unspoken son since Augustus of 974, Godric. Now you are a man. Protect them as one.”

“I will.” Godric turns away and gathers the others close, ignoring the tears dripping down his face. “Torold, take my hand. Each of you, take another’s hand until we’re all connected. I will be first, but Oriel should be the last of us in this string. When I walk, walk with me. When I stop, stop with me. We go to Griffon’s Door, and though it may seem frightening, nothing there will harm you.”

“They’re coming!” Erneis hisses the warning, and that is the end of any delay. Godric sets off in a mile-eating trot, hoping that the others can keep up.

 _Please lead me to the place I must go_ , Godric pleads as long minutes pass and it seems as if the wood around them never changes. He can tell the youngest are ready to stumble from exhaustion. _Please bring me to the Door in this time of Great Need._

Godric nearly trips over the first tuft of moss before he realizes that they’ve come to the end of the path. They’re within the circling trees that protect the hill and tall oak tree of Griffon’s Door.

“Oh,” Griselda breathes in amazement. “It’s so pretty!”

“I thought it would be made of stone,” Sampson says doubtfully.

“It is what it is. Do not let go of my hand, no matter what you see, hear, or feel,” Godric orders. “I did not bring you so far only to lose you now.”

“How do you know we’re doing what we should?” Honora asks in a faint voice, clinging to Torold and Aldous.

“I dreamed it,” Godric answers her—answering all of them, really. “Every day of strong magic, I dreamed of exactly what we’re doing now.” He’d never been able to see his companions, but always he had led others to the Door.

“Godric?” Oriel’s voice is high-pitched in a way that is unfamiliar. “Are you truly suggesting—”

“It is not a suggestion. It is exactly where we’re meant to go.” Godric lifts his wand in his free hand, uncertain what to do, until he strikes the nearest root of the great tree. What he hears isn’t the tap of wood against wood, but a tonal note. Magic.

Godric makes himself breathe as he taps every root to hear each different note. In the distance he can hear hounds baying. Men shouting. The loosening of arrows. Cries of pain.

There is nothing but the Door.

Godric picks out the melody to a song he has never heard before in his life, but is as familiar to him as his own face in a mirror. It’s beautiful and frightening, the same way that Great-grandmother Edda once described the old Sidhe, those who went away from this place when man’s love of iron left it scattered around the hillsides like so many baited traps.

_What is it you require, Guardian?_

The voice is inhuman. It is sweet as honey. It is as terrible as a spear that poisons a man’s blood.

Godric tucks his wand into his belt, unsnaps his belt pouch, and pulls out the blue stone. “I was once given this as a gift by the Elves of the Grove of Brae,” he says, surprised when his voice is strong and unwavering. “I was told it was for a time of great need, and that time is now.”

_It is a powerful gift. Are you certain you wish to give it up? You will never again be granted its like._

Godric doesn’t hear it, but he feels it, sees it in his mind. Erneis is dying of a sword that pierced his heart. Wystan is shouting at the man who did it, leaving them with no prisoner to question. Wystan’s own soldier dies faster than Erneis, who smiles as Wystan loses his temper and curses the other to an early death.

“It does not matter if I’m never granted another gift such as this. I am the Magical Eorl of Griffon’s Door and the English realm of Somerset. My duty is to my people, and right now my duty is to safeguard the children entrusted to my care. Please, I—” Godric’s voice cracks. “I know that this stone comes from a Door that is far to the north. I know that this Door is a place of safety, even if I cannot remember why. Please. I ask for safe passage for myself and all of those whose hands I hold, these links in an unsevered chain. I ask for safe passage so that we may all emerge from that northern Door unscathed, with—with no time having passed between our departure here and our arrival there. We will be no older or younger than we are now. We will be unchanged as we pass through these doors, but will begin to change again as God intends once we’re free in the north.” Godric swallows. “Please.”

_Your words betray your concern for those you wish to safeguard. Your heart is true now, just as it was when this Griffon-named Door granted you the wand you yield._

Godric refuses to step back as the tree roots before him part like a curtain. The thick wood snaps and groans as if great trees are being blown about in high winds. The moss-covered hillside before him darkens until it becomes the mouth of an earthen cave.

 _Enter, Door Guardian. Those of us who Guard swear that no harm of any sort will befall those in your linked chain. Do not return to these lands until it is time to remove the usurper who claims your rightful title_.

“Godric?” Oriel sounds less alarmed now, and far more curious. Godric can sense fear of the unknown from those he protects, but no terror. That is…that is good. He can be terrified enough for all of them.

“Do not let go of my hand,” Godric reminds them, and steps into the earthen tunnel. Darkness closes around him, but he keeps walking forward. Silence descends until he cannot hear his own footsteps, but he keeps placing one foot in front of the other. The sensation of Torold’s hand in his own is gone, but he does not loosen his grip.

 _And now, there is one more thing_.

“Now you tell me?” Godric asks with a shaky laugh. “What is that one thing?

 _Payment,_ the inhuman voice says, as if it is an obvious answer.

“Are you not meant to negotiate the terms of payment before you let people wander around inside your hill?”

_You did not mention it. Our rules are not your rules._

“Very well.” Godric hopes he’s still holding Torold’s hand. Oriel will hand him his arse if he loses her newly chosen partner. “What is considered worthy payment?”

 _You ask wise questions. Anything you consider of value is payment enough, but it cannot be insignificant. The payment must have enough worth that its loss will leave a scar_.

Godric nods, uncaring if the gesture is seen. He will not sacrifice anyone he protects. He cannot offer to sacrifice himself, as to do so is to abandon the rest of Griffon’s Door to Wystan’s treachery. He cannot give up the ring he bears; magic will not allow it. Losing the dagger a second time will not leave a scar. The sword is replaceable. He values his blood, but was raised with the truth that he would shed it often in defence of his eorldom, so that won’t do, either.

Edda would know what to do, Godric thinks in growing dismay. His great-grandmother is long used to the tricky ways of magic, and all of the shapes it can take—

“Memory,” Godric blurts out. “I have always valued my ability to perfectly recall everything that has happened in my life, a gift I recognized in infancy.”

_We are listening, Guardian._

“If I gave you a year of my life—a year of my own choosing—would that leave enough of a scar to satisfy the price you ask?”

_Do you consider any loss of memory to be anathema?_

“Yes, especially after my uncle…” Godric swallows. “I think my ability to recall things with such clarity helped me to keep his vile enchantment at bay. If not for that…”

_It is an acceptable trade. Grant us the year, Godric Grypusdor, Guardian Fire of the South._

“On this second day of Ianuarius, the time of Compitalia and the great strength of the crossroads, I will give you my memory of our world’s Summer Solstice in the Year of Our Lord 976 through our world’s Summer Solstice in the Year of Our Lord 977,” Godric says, and hopes that he’s chosen his words correctly.

 _The Vǫlva Edda taught you well. Remember us to her when next you see her_ , the inhuman voice says, and then it’s gone. Godric still cannot see, cannot hear, cannot feel. He does what he had already been doing—he keeps walking forward.

There is light in front of his eyes that had not been there before. It hurts, making him stumble, until suddenly Godric is beyond a blue-tinged archway and Oriel has thrown herself into his arms.

“Where have you been?” she cries, weeping next to his ear. “Everyone emerged safely from that Door but you, but you entered first!”

“I—” Godric stares around in confusion. Everyone whose hand he’d held, all the links in the chain, are present. So are a number of baffled looking soldiers in proper practice gear, holding wooden swords and padded shields as if they’ve forgotten what the items are for. The entire yard is made of stone, though instead of a continuation of that odd blue rock that makes up the archway, it is pieced together grey stone and red brick.

Red brick. This keep was built by plundering the ruins of old Roman buildings.

Godric looks up at the height of the building before him. This is no keep, but a castle, and he knows this place.

“ _Cad a dhéanaimid_?” Godric hears. _What do we do_?

He remembers that language, but only now. Just now. Why?

A boy in properly sized practice gear is pushing his way past the baffled soldiers until he is standing amidst Godric’s rescued people. He is pale-skinned, with dark brown hair and bright blue eyes that remind Godric of the sunlit sea. He is perhaps twelve, but already there is a commanding gaze in his eyes.

“Where did all of these people come from?” the boy asks, glancing at each of them in turn. He is still speaking the strange-familiar language that Godric understands.

A dark-skinned soldier finally finds her tongue. “They came through the archway, my Lord. There was no change to it, no light, but suddenly, these children were walking into the practice yard.”

“That is…my fault.” Godric is shocked by the sound of his voice. Before, his words had been clear and strong. Now it sounds as if he’s on the verge of a terrible illness. “I didn’t—I didn’t remember where this place was.”

The boy looks startled before he rushes to stand before Godric. It’s odd to look down at this child. Should the boy be taller? Should Godric be shorter?

“Godric?” the boy whispers, his eyes wide and shocked. “Is that you?” Now he is speaking English, but his accent is very odd, the words stilted and unpracticed.

Godric reaches out, aware that many are seeking to draw weapons, but the only thing he does is lift a strand of the boy’s brown hair. “Somehow in my thoughts it had turned to the gold light of a bright dawn, like your mother’s,” Godric murmurs. “But it isn’t like hers, is it? It’s like your father’s.”

The boy grabs Godric’s hand. “Godric?  Please tell me that it’s you. We’ve not heard anything of you in over three years!”

“You were…I was not asked to write letters to any northern kingdom,” Godric says, puzzled.

The boy growls and says a word under his breath that would definitely anger his mother. “All of our letters were turned away, no matter how it was we sent them. The only thing we knew was that your family was dead and your uncle named Steward of Griffon’s Door until you came of age—” The boy squeezes Godric’s hand. “Do you not remember me? You claimed me as your brother, the same as I did for you!”

“Brother.” Godric feels like a layer of filth has been peeled away from his mind. “Findláech?”

The boy grins wide, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “Yes! Yes, that’s me. Godric, what has—”

“It was dark. Now it’s daylight. What is the date?” Godric asks in sudden panic. “The whole of it!”

“It’s the third day of Ianuarius, the Year of Our Lord 978.” Findláech peers at him in concern. “Did you not know?”

“That—has to wait. I…” Godric turns to those he brought with him. They seem no worse the wear for their journey from one Door to another. They are watching him and waiting, still trusting Godric to grant them the safety he promised.

Godric looks back to Findláech and then drops to one knee before him, speaking in Gaoidhealg, the language of the Gaeils. “Your Highness Prince Findláech, Heir to the Kingdom of Muireb: I seek sanctuary for all those I’ve brought with me, as they are in grave danger from a terrible enemy.” Godric pauses as another pertinent fact occurs to him. “Oh, and I seek sanctuary for myself, I suppose.”

The dark-skinned woman steps forward. “Your Highness, you are aware that you cannot grant—”

“My father will deal with any difficulties later, Mochán,” Findláech says. “My parents would never turn away those seeking succor, especially when they arrive on our literal doorstep. Godric Grypusdor of Somerset and England: you and yours have the sanctuary of the castle of Inbhir Nis in Muireb.”

Godric’s shoulders slump in sudden relief and exhaustion. “My gratitude, Your Highness.”

“My name is Findláech,” the young prince reminds him in a tart voice, but then his brow furrows in concern. “Who is this terrible enemy, Godric?”

“Oh.” Godric smiles. “That would be my uncle.”

Then the world tilts on its axis, and that is the last thing he knows for quite some time.


	8. Hel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He dreams of unceasing darkness beneath the hill, and the fright he’d ignored. Now that this is a memory and not truth, he feels it all: terror that he is trapped in darkness, that he is speaking to a disembodied voice that sounds like it belongs to some realm far beyond their own. Fear that he lost his hold on Torold’s hand, and he has doomed twenty-five souls to wander beneath the hill for all time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nope, I didn't spell the title wrong. <3
> 
> Props to cheer-readers @norcumi, @sanerontheinside, @mrsstanley, & @jabberwockypie, and @drougnor who keeps vacuuming up fic via the backup folders downstairs. Other mistakes are mine, mine, mine, and probably doofy.

He is asleep, and time is passing, but he isn’t dreaming. That isn’t right, makes him feel as if he is an enchanted sleep worse than his uncle’s foul magic. He fights his way to consciousness and tells the man-shaped shadow near his bed that he isn’t dreaming.

“No, you’ve been dosed with the sort of potions that prevent such,” a voice says. It is vaguely familiar.

“But I’m not dreaming,” Godric insists. It’s important for the shadow-shape to understand this.

“All right. We’ll think on altering the potions,” the shadow concedes, but Godric is already slipping under again.

He dreams of unceasing darkness beneath the hill, and the fright he’d ignored. Now that this is a memory and not truth, he feels it all: terror that he is trapped in darkness, that he is speaking to a disembodied voice that sounds like it belongs to some realm far beyond their own. Fear that he lost his hold on Torold’s hand, and he has doomed twenty-five souls to wander beneath the hill for all time.

 _That is not what happened, and you know this._ Godric tries not to start away at the sound of the voice near his ear again, saying words that had not been spoken in that place. _Do not forget what we have named you._

“Guardian Fire of the South,” Godric repeats, unware of the fact that his sleeping body is also saying the words aloud—startling the watching Torold and Emma, who fall to the floor and begin shouting for a healer.

 _One day you will meet others who bear titles relating to the four directions of Man. On that day, you will find the whole of your peace_.

 _I will find the whole of my peace when Griffon’s Door is free of Wystan Grypusdor,_ Godric thinks, but he is no longer dreaming of the Door and its strange being. It’s a relief to be away, walking through the fields surrounding his home as they were before the famine came. The wild roses are blooming, perfuming the air The hay being cut in the distant fields has always brought a soothing scent to his nose, as if signaling that all is well.

“Laguia?” he asks when he spies his grandmother further up the path. She is holding her staff, but not using it to pick her way among the loose stones as carefully as she should.

“Godric. What do you see?” Laguia asks.

Godric looks around, the most obvious sight drawing his eye first. “They’re cutting the hay to gather and dry—wait. Is that Aubri?” he asks in surprise. His friend is taller, broader in the shoulders, his dusky skin darkened further by the sun.

Laguia glances in that direction. “I suppose it is. He will grow up nicely, won’t he?”

Godric swallows and feels his eyes burn. “If I dream of the future, you cannot be here. You died.”

Laguia turns around, allowing Godric to see fewer lines of care on her face. Her smile is bright, no longer weighed down by the difficulties that must have plagued her. “Does our Maker not say that we shall have everlasting life? I am dead, Godric, my body given to the earth, but that is not the end of who I am.”

Godric bows his head, chastened. “Forgive me.”

Laguia’s voice is gentle. “For what, grandson?”

“For not learning well enough. For not knowing how to see the embroidery needle sooner.”

“You shoulder blame that was never meant to be yours, and never should be,” Laguia says sternly. “You will have ample opportunity to have true cause to blame yourself for things that go wrong in your life, but the mistakes made on eleventh Augustus of 974 were made by men, not by a child—a child who was still brave enough to attempt to defend the fallen, even though the battle was already lost.”

“It would have been wrong not to try,” Godric whispers, biting his lip. He must carry that date with him into waking, as he didn’t recall it before due to Wystan’s magic. “I miss you.”

He doesn’t realize how close she’s come until Laguia places her hand atop Godric’s head. “I miss you as well. Don’t tell any of the others, but you were the favorite of all of my grandchildren, and of all of my brother’s and sisters’ children.”

Godric manages to smile. “I won’t, Grandmother.”

“Take hold of my staff, Godric,” Laguia orders. He reaches out and wraps both hands around the smooth grey ash wood, feeling the comfort it exudes for its wielder. “Though the dead part and go far from us, they are ever within our hearts. The wisdom I shared with you did not die with me, nor did your father’s, nor your mother’s. Not even Erneis’s words have been lost, he who gave his life in glad sacrifice to aid you and those you protected. You have only to remember us, grandson, and we will all be with you.”

Godric looks up at her. He can see her eyes clearly for the first time, a hard-edged blue, but there is kindness lurking in her gaze. “I have to stop him. Kill him.”

Laguia nods. “I know. Bear in mind all of the lessons you have learned so far, and all those you still have yet to learn, and you will regain Griffon’s Door. If you let your heart be consumed by the sort of hatred that blinds a man, you will not succeed. Let go, Godric.”

Godric lets go of her staff and watches, feeling wretched and helpless, as she walks the path and disappears behind the next hill. He could follow, he knows, but if he did, he would never awaken.

He dreams of Wystan sitting in the Great Hall of the keep. The black banner with its bronze alarionem bird is on the wall instead of the Grypusdor standard. Godric rolls his eyes to see that his uncle is no longer even continuing the pretense of holding the keep in his nephew’s stead. “I do not want excuses,” Wystan hisses. “I want that boy found!”

“Cousin. My Lord.” Rychard looks like he has recently been kicked in the face, and may well lose a tooth or three for it. “We continue to search, but he used a magic none of us understand. The whelp could be anywhere in Britain, and no one has reported any sight of him.”

“Triple the offer for his return,” Wystan says in a flat voice. “Find him.”

Rychard bows and leaves the hall. Godric contemplates pulling down the alarionem banner so it will fall over Wystan’s head. Unfortunately, he is as much a ghost here as the dead, and can’t loosen the leather knots at all. Not even his wand affects his surroundings.

Triple the offer. “I wonder what you’re willing to pay for me?” Godric wonders aloud.

“I’ll pay any price to see him returned long enough to put his head upon a pole and leave it raised in the courtyard,” Wystan mutters. He lifts a goblet of wine and glares into its depths.

“So noted. I will not be agreeing to anything like that.” Godric takes another look around, saddened. This hall was smaller before Wystan came, a Receiving Hall for guests who came to his father’s keep. Wystan removed a wall and took away the chambers of two different families to make it so much larger, an attempt to impress those who might visit the keep. Godric thinks it’s stupid; it’s harder to heat a room this large in winter, and Wystan does not entertain enough to make the effort worthwhile.

 _I want to wake up now_ , Godric thinks. He turns and leaves the hall, walking out to find bright sunlight in the courtyard.

 

*         *         *         *

 

Godric blinks awake, wincing away from the intense light burning into his eyes. He tries to sling his arm over his face to protect himself and finds that he can scarcely move at all.

“Oh—let me get that, Godric.” A woman’s voice, older and kind. “I hadn’t realized you had awakened, and the healers have wished for you to see as much of the sun as possible.”

A white cloth is hung over the window, one that lessens the glare of the sun while still allowing the room to fill with daylight. “Where am I?” Godric asks, and is horrified when the words are nothing more than a rasp.

“Safe.” The woman approaches his bed and sits down on its edge. Her hair is the red-gold of the dawn; her eyes shine like the open sea. “You’re in Muireb, Godric. You’re within the royal castle of Inbhir Nis.”

Godric tries a few times before he can speak again. “Queen Eilénóra?”

She smiles. “When we last saw each other, you did not call me a queen. I am not your ruler, and you are not my servant or my subject.”

“I—” His words turn into a fit of fierce coughing, eased only by drinking watered-down honey with some sort of sour bite to it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—for the last three years, I could not—”

“Could not remember.” Eilénóra’s expression saddens. “Yes. Oriel said much the same, though she suspected it was worse for you. I’m so sorry, Godric.”

The way she expresses sorrow—Godric sits upright too quickly and nearly falls from the bed, his head spins so much. “The others? They’re not harmed, are they?”

“Oh!” Eilénóra shakes her head and then eases Godric back down. “No, none of the twenty-five who traveled with you are harmed, Godric. Quite the opposite. Many were ill, at first, but from the suffering you had already endured, not due to any failure on the part of my kingdom. You and Oriel were the worst afflicted, and you more so than her.”

“Afflicted with—with what?” Godric asks. Aside from their arrival, he remembers nothing aside from dreaming.

“Do you recall Waðsige?” When Godric nods, Eilénóra continues. “She believes that you and Oriel were using your magic to sustain yourselves. You ate less than the others, giving your food to the children. Your magic gave you the strength to continue. The moment you recognized that you were in a place of safety…well.” Eilénóra smiles. “You’ve been ill for over a month, Godric. The healers suspect you will be in this bed for another month before you gain your feet and walk again.”

Godric recalls what he dreamed of, and the coin that Wystan is willing to pay for his return. “Am I? Am I—are all of us—are we safe, Your Highness?”

“Ah, the formality returns.” Eilénóra nods and gently pushes Godric back down onto the bed, fussing with his covers as if she were his own mother. “Godric Grypusdor, English Eorl of Somerset, I swear to you that you and those you protected are safe in this kingdom. If it eases your heart, I will make certain that Ruaidrí swears the same.”

“I trust you,” Godric whispers, because he always has. He is swiftly being pulled back to slumber, but he must warn her. “Wystan has sent out runners with an offer of coin for my return.”

“Has he?” Eilénóra nods, a thoughtful look on her face. “I will not ask how it is you know. Magicians have their ways. Do not fear, Godric. Until you have the legal protection Oriel has told me you require, none shall know of your presence in Inbhir Nis aside from those who hold our absolute trust.”

Godric dreams again while he sleeps, but he doesn’t know if it is a memory or a vision. He was never prone to visions before, but then, he hadn’t yet walked through a Door.

A young girl with unbound hair the color of living fire is sitting before her slanted desk, composing a letter with quick strokes of a quill that craft black letters of sleek beauty. Her cemesis a very pale blue; her gown is the darker blue of a September sky. She has a wand tucked into her belt that is too large for a child, one that will suit her best as an adult. The grip resembles a climbing vine, though the rest of the curved line of black walnut is simple and unadorned.

“Oh, sarding pintel on a stick,” the girl mutters, rubbing away a miswritten letter to replace it with perfection.

For some reason, that brings for wrenching recognition, the same thing Godric felt when he’d finally realized it was Findláech mac Ruaidrí who stood before him. “Sedemai.”

Sedemai drops her quill and draws her wand in one smooth motion, spinning around. “Who is here?” she demands, her blue eyes sharp. Godric approves; that is one who takes no chances, who will defend everything she claims with a fierce fire.

She can’t see him. That is evident when Sedemai’s eyes pass over where he stands without noticing his presence. He finds himself wishing that she could. “I miss you,” Godric whispers. “I missed you even when I could not remember your name.”

Sedemai slowly lowers her wand, a perplexed look on her face. “Godric?”

Godric snaps awake and gasps, not certain why he roused so suddenly. Then he is being hugged, a skinny arm around his neck nearly cutting off his breath. “You’re awake!” Findláech cries gladly. “I’m so glad!”

“If you don’t release your hold, I’ll be asleep again in moments!” Godric begs, feeling a smile stretch his lips. It’s an odd feeling; he isn’t really used to smiling for good reasons anymore.

Findláech releases him and sits on the bed, his legs tucked up underneath him. “I missed you. It’s good to see you awake rather than watching you mutter in your sleep.”

“Have I been?”

Findláech nods. “Most of it has been nonsense. We’ve taken wagers on what it is you’re dreaming about. The largest pot to wager on is that you’re dreaming of killing your uncle.”

“Surprisingly enough? No. I shall reserve that activity for another day,” Godric says, wincing as he tries to sit. Findláech bounces up and moves several pillows so that Godric can feel like he is merely reclining, not trapped flat on his back.

Next, he endures the full might of Healer Waðsige’s prodding wand. “It’s me you’ll be dealing with, even if you’ve gotten fussy about having a woman for a healer,” she says in an amused voice as Godric grumbles about it. “I am now High Healer of Inbhir Nis, most trusted of the royal house. Only Faramund, High Court Magician, is my equal, though he is not so good with healing.”

“It isn’t the…the healing,” Godric says, wincing as he sees a shining replica of his body in the air. His magical core is a pathetic wisp of scarlet fire, which is his first concern. However, the sight of his core is then drowned in images of ugly yellow fracture lines along his bones, tendons and muscles that scream in red swaths of agony, and blue lines that wrap every part of him not saturated in the other colors. “Dear God.”

“That is why Queen Eilénóra warned you that you still have yet another month abed,” Waðsige says in a dry voice. “You aren’t feeling this pain as you should, and I don’t think I should alter that, not yet. I’d rather see you healing, not crippled by your body’s misery.”

“It—there was no choice.” Godric is still shocked by the image of how broken he is. “We had to continue on, or suffer worse.”

Findláech sniffles. “You should have come to us sooner.”

“I’m sorry. I could not,” Godric says, reaching out to clasp Findláech’s hand. “For many reasons.”

Findláech squeezes his hand. “I know.”

Waðsige has been watching Godric with knowing eyes. “It isn’t the healing that bothers you. It’s the lack of care that you are not used to receiving that makes it seem odd.”

Godric inclines his head, but that makes him dizzy. Sarding hell, this is awful.

“Then I will be as cautious as I can be in how I treat with you, Lord Godric, but if I am too gentle, you will not heal well.”

Godric scowls. “Do _not_ be gentle. I must heal well. I have too much to do, and too many who are depending on me to do it proper.”

Waðsige rolls his eyes. “What is it about those with red hair who wish to make my tasks harder than they should be?”

The others visit in small groups, under stern warning from the healer not to tire Godric. Oriel and Torold are first, their hands clasped tightly together. Godric asks Oriel what it was like for her when they passed through the door. Oriel pauses, a hint of a frown on her face, before she says it was just like walking through a tunnel but for the sensation of eyes on her skin. She never felt as if she was in danger, and never lost her grip on young Pavia’s hand. Torold confesses that the tunnel made his skin crawl, but he ceased caring the moment they stepped out into the safety of Inbhir Nis.

“Are you handfasted?” Godric asks them as he slumps back on the stacked pillows. He tires so easily. It’s irritating, but he wills himself to patience. He cannot kill Wystan if he isn’t hale.

“No,” Oriel answers at once.

“But we’re thinking on it,” Torold adds, and earns a sideways glance from Oriel. Godric suspects that Torold is once again going to suffer Oriel’s lack of mercy, but for a different reason than before.

Constance, Emma, and Nota visit him together. Godric finds that rather appropriate, given how they spent the last six months of their time in the keep. “The king and queen are treating us as guests for now as we recover, but some of us have begun to find our hands too idle. I’m to be employed within the castle,” Constance says with pride. “My magic has always been slight, but it makes my embroidery come alive, which pleases Queen Eilénóra.”

“I’m glad for you,” Godric says, smiling. Constance’s mother and father had both been of Leofric’s guard, and lost their lives in that final battle. With no family left to her, he’s glad to see she might have found a home. It’s also not a surprise that she would turn away from her original apprenticeship of non-magical healing. They did quite a bit of that these past three years, and it was breaking her heart.

Emma smiles at Godric and wraps her hand around his leg in a way that isn’t coy at all. “The Queen has decided that those of us who have declared ourselves avowed to you will become your retinue while you remain in Muireb.” Her smile vanishes. “Even with all our caution, Wystan Grypusdor will come to discover where you dwell. You will need us, no matter how we serve you. It must appear as if you are an honored guest in the Court of Muireb, being treated as the titled Eorl and magician you will be training to be.”

Godric nods; it makes sense, and when he is able, he is not opposed to Emma’s continued company. “Who else will do so?”

“Oriel and Torold as well as myself, obviously,” Emma replies. “Nota is still deciding.”

“I have been offered an excellent position in a House of Muireb. The royal family assures me that they are a good family…and I have no family left to return to, Lord Godric,” Nota says, ducking her head.

Godric reaches out with one shaking hand and grips her arm. “There is no shame in not wishing to return to a home that treated you ill, Nota,” he says. “If you decide that this is truly what you wish to do, I will release you from the vow you made to me.”

Nota bends down and kisses his hand. “You are a good man, Lord Godric.”

“So others keep saying.” Godric doesn’t think he deserves that sort of praise. He is merely trying to do what is right and just, as he was taught and as he believes.

“Yon, Tomas, Sampson, Selova, and Udo also will follow you,” Constance says. “The king and queen will not prevent Griselda, Ioetta, Aldous, Honora, Pavia, and Bevis from returning to their home in Griffon’s Door when it is safe to do so, but for now Their Majesties insist that the place of the young ones is in school, learning their letters, numbers, and perhaps a trade as they grow older.”

“Good,” Godric whispers. There had been no schooling in letters and reading after his father’s death. “They deserve the chance to be children.”

“So did we,” Nota murmurs. “It should please you to hear that the nine infants we brought with us have all been safely fostered. They are with good people who understand the little ones have family in the south who will one day wish to see their children returned.”

“It does please me.” Godric’s eyes close, blocking out the noise of the waking world. He dreams of a gyre falcon in flight, and watches it from the high tower of a castle. The falcon’s breast is pure white, its wings mottled grey. When the falcon lands on Godric’s outstretched arm, his talons do not pierce the thick linen tunic Godric wears. The bird’s eyes are not the gyre falcon’s typical black, but an odd dark blue that resembles a reflecting pool.

“You’re mine,” Godric says to the bird, who tilts his head in curiosity. “Somewhere out in the world, you’re waiting for me. I’ll find you when it is time, won’t I?”

The gyre falcon bends his head to give his fingers an affectionate nip. Then he launches himself into the air again, giving voice to a great cry.

 

*         *         *         *

 

As the days pass, Godric manages to stay awake for longer periods of time. The amount of potions the healer forces him to drink seems dire and excessive, but each time Waðsige casts the charm that shows the illuminated copy of Godric’s body, the blue, the yellow, and the angry red are less, while the scarlet of his magical core grows stronger.

Waðsige removes Godric’s wand from the cupboard next to his bed and places it in Godric’s hand. “Only one spell,” she warns Godric. “I wish to see how your magic fares. Do nothing more than light the candle next to this bed.”

Godric lifts his wand, glad for the feel of it in his hand. “ _Lux_ ,” he whispers, and is disappointed when nothing more than a spark touches the wick of the candle.

“Don’t fear, Godric.” Waðsige seems pleased. “That is better than I thought you would do.” She regards him quietly for a moment. “If I leave your wand in your hand, will you obey my instructions to do no magic at all unless I am here to witness it?”

“What will happen if you are not here?” Godric asks.

Waðsige frowns. “You will be fighting against the core of your magic as it attempts to restore itself. You will slow the process of that restoration, or you might risk halting it.”

“Then you have my promise.” Godric tucks his wand beneath his pillow. “Only in your presence…until you tell me I no longer have such restrictions.”

“Wise lad.” Waðsige leaves him to drowse as Godric suffers through the latest round of healing potions and spells.

The royal family stops to check on him almost as often as his people from Griffon’s Door. He appreciates their presence, their kind words, and their oaths that the others are safe. Eilénóra apologies for not being at his side more often, explaining that she has a young one to tend to. Godric immediately wants to see the infant, recalling how much the queen wished for another child.

Eilénóra brings in a boy who is two years of age, though he will be three in Aprilis. The boy has curling golden hair, like his mother, with his father’s bright blue eyes and ruddy skin. “Máil Brigti mac Ruaidrí, Prince of Muireb,” Eilénóra introduces her second son. “Máil Brigti, this is Godric Grypusdor, Lord of Griffon’s Door and rightful Magical Eorl over Somerset.”

Máil Brigti greets him in toddler-babbled Gaoidhealg, and Godric smiles. “He favors you,” Godric says.

“Don’t let that hair of his fool you. My boy takes a fair bit after his father,” Eilénóra responds wryly.

The worst of it, though, is trying to explain to Findláech, Ruaidrí, and Eilénóra what occurred in Somerset. They know the details that no enchantment could hide: Lord Leofric dead in battle; his brother Wystan Grypusdor named by King Edmund as Steward for Griffon’s Door and the acting Magical Eorl over Somerset. Godric hadn’t realized how little he had been seen at Court until it is mentioned, nor did he know that there were thanes and eorls not fooled by the enchantment. They warned Edmund against naming one known to pillage as a Magical Eorl, no matter how temporary the title was meant to be, but the warnings went unheeded. Corfe Castle is in the south, and those of the north feel that the dark enchantment clouds not just Somerset, but the whole of southern England. Even London feels that oppressive pall.

Godric tries to tell them of the battle, Wystan’s vile trap. For the most part, he succeeds. It helps to recall the date, to hold that in his mind, but the details—those, he lacks. Wystan’s sorcery worked hard to obscure this from his mind, but Godric is stubborn. He tells them that both Laguia and Leofric fell to Wystan’s wand, and how he thinks Conon’s violent death was the beginning of Wystan’s enchantment.

“The first year is difficult for all of you to remember,” Eilénóra tells him. “The others have tried, but feel you may know more than they.”

There is not much Godric can say. He knows every soldier who would not pledge loyalty to Wystan was slain, and that Erneis escaped that plight by being correct—to have the Weapons Master of Griffon’s Door vanish would be to invite suspicion from the rest of England’s noble houses. Every magician in the keep was sought out, healers and warriors alike. Their wands were snapped before they were slain. Oriel survived only due to her youth and her status as a servant rather than a magician’s apprentice.

“How many children remain in Griffon’s Door?” King Ruaidrí asks after Godric has done his best to explain all that occurred, separating truth from the falsehoods they were meant to believe.

“There are three, but hardly children,” Godric says, his words beginning to slur. He has been tired for years, it seems, and he despairs of that exhaustion ever ceasing. “Edytha, daughter of Meraud, Head of the Kitchen—she is my age. With her status in the household and her mother’s position, it is most likely safe for her to remain there. Aubri, my friend, is two years my elder. He remained to watch over a friend of our childhood named Uchered. He was…” Godric bites his lip. “Uchered had the same sickness that killed my brother, and eventually my mother. His body is well, but his mind has never been the same. He is only a year older than I, and we did not want—we didn’t want to see him harmed by Wystan’s men.”

“Young Aubri is a true friend, brave and loyal, to stand for another in their weakness,” Ruaidrí says quietly. “All those who accompanied you on your dangerous journey through the great Doors have steel in their spines and greatness written across their lips. You are most blessed in your company, Godric.”

Godric lowers his eyes. “I doubt any of us feel so blessed.”

“You survive,” Eilénóra says. “That alone is a blessing from the Almighty, Godric.”

He nods to signal acceptance of her words before trying to explain the next three years. He constantly has to step back and tell them no, to apologize, as he has veered from true memories into false ones. The king, queen, and prince are understanding and sympathetic, but Godric is angry and frustrated. In this, his perfect memory is a curse.

The others who he rescued from Griffon’s Door are beginning to forget the false memories created by Wystan’s enchantment. Godric can’t forget it, not any of it. He was right when he thought that the memories were meant to be permanent. He just hadn’t realized those false years would only be permanent for him.

Godric rests again, and the next day, Findláech brings the game of Tafl they bought in the market of Inbhir Nis during Godric’s first visit. Findláech sets up the board and its carved pieces so that Godric does not have to.

“Attack, or defend?” Findláech asks.

“Attack,” Godric answers. It fits his mood.

He wins quickly. It seems easy.

Findláech does not get angry, or hold the easy victory against him. He grins, his eyes sparkling. “That was wonderful! The last time we played, you would never have been able to do such a thing!”

“The last time we played, I couldn’t yet see the needle,” Godric murmurs. “Again?”

Findláech nods enthusiastically and resets the board. “This time, I will attack.”

Godric nods and watches the board as he defends the king and his meager guard. He slips through Findláech’s defences, and the king escapes. “Was it always so simple?” he wonders aloud.

“I want to see you play against Father,” Findláech says, wide-eyed.

Godric nods to oblige him, and Findláech fetches Ruaidrí. “My son tells me that I must sit with you at Tafl,” Ruaidrí says, smiling. “Will you defend or attack, Godric?”

“Attack,” Godric decides again. It is a bit more difficult against a blooded opponent, but he still wins the game.

Ruaidrí sits back and regards the board. “You know, Faramund has been speaking of you. He is insistent that your magical mastery will be in defence, as you have been so quick to defend and protect others. I do not agree with him. I think you are meant for something more.”

“More than what?” Godric asks, but the king shakes his head, claiming he cannot answer that question. Only Godric’s magical master will know.

“I hope I find a master who isn’t cryptic, then,” Godric mutters. Ruaidrí laughs and challenges him to another game.

Findláech must have been waiting for permission from Waðsige. The latter half of the second month, Godric will often wake in the mornings to find that the boy has burrowed into the narrow bed along Godric’s side. “I’ll not be disappearing into the air, Findláech,” Godric mutters one morning when that too-warm weight is at his side again.

There is a long, quiet pause, and Godric wonders if the boy is still asleep. Then Findláech says, “But you did, Godric. You disappeared.”

Godric rolls over and pulls Findláech into a fierce embrace. “And I will not tell you it won’t happen again, as it might. I will simply promise to do my best not to do so.”

“All right.” Findláech lets go and hops up from the bed. “Do you know what today is?”

“Not in the slightest,” Godric replies dryly. It might still be Ianuarius, but he feels it’s likely to be closer to mid-Februarius.

“Waðsige says that you may try to stand up today!”

Godric thumps back down onto the bed and pulls a pillow over his head. He’s already attempted that once on his own, and it had not gone well. “Tell her I’m unavailable.”

Findláech grins. “Oh! That means tell her immediately! I’ll go and fetch her now.” He runs off, but at least remembers to shut the door as he leaves.

Godric rolls his eyes and swings his legs over the side of the bed, pushing himself into a seated position. At least he has recovered enough to be able to fill a chamber pot without requiring assistance. He’d just like to be healed enough to use his wand to disperse the results without having to ask another to do it for him.

Waðsige is a strong woman. After running her usual charms to test his strength and his magic—he can light the sarding candle now—she grasps Godric’s arm, pulls it over her shoulder, and then hauls them both to their feet. Godric lets out a pathetic squeak as his knees immediately buckle.

“No, none of that,” Waðsige says. “Your legs are not used to holding you aloft, and that is all. It is no longer ill health that keeps you abed, but infirmity. When I take a step forward with my right foot, you shall do the same, and I will wait for as long as it takes you to do so.”

Infirmity. That means it is now only weakness plaguing him, not illness. Godric grits his teeth and forces his right foot forward after the healer takes a step. The bottom of his foot never leaves the floor as he drags it along, but it is, without a doubt, a move he made on his own.

“Good,” Waðsige praises him, sounding as if her pleasure is genuine. “And now the left.”

Godric is swearing in a hoarse whisper after six completed steps. Waðsige has pity on him and lets him collapse back onto the bed.

“Very good. That is better than I hoped. We will be doing this again at the dinner hour.”

He is not ashamed that he whimpers at the idea. “And at supper as well, I imagine?”

“As long as only weariness ails you? Yes,” Waðsige confirms, grinning. “Yes, I will take pleasure in this! You came near death several times, and to see you fighting to walk warms my heart.”

Godric stares at her. “Near death?”

“And…none of us had mentioned that before, had we?” Waðsige bows her head in apology. “I hadn’t realized. Yes, Lord Godric. I did not dare tell the king and queen you would live until I was certain of it, and that was only at the end of Ianuarius.”

“End of Ianuarius.” Godric frowns. “Waðsige, what is the date now?”

“It is the first of Martius.” Waðsige grants him another look of sympathy. “As I said—near death, Lord Godric.”

“Is there anything I can do to quicken this process?” Godric asks her. “To walk again, I mean. I know it will not be easy.”

“Yes, but it you will not make the attempt until it has been the rest of this day and two more whole days of our brief walks about this room.” Waðsige pins Godric with a healer’s sternness. “After that time, when you lie on your bed, lift your leg a scant inch into the air, hold it for the length of a drawn breath, and lower it again. Do the same with each leg for as many times as possible before your leg will not rise again. Why do you feel the need to punish your body further?”

“You know the rules for seeking a magical mastery in Briton as well as I do, Waðsige,” Godric says, dropping back onto the bed. “The master will not come to you; you must go to them.”

“That is true enough.” Waðsige hums under her breath. “Yes, a very good point. We will discuss rebuilding the strength of your upper body later, then.”

“Wait—what of that?” Godric calls after her in alarm, but she’s departed already. He receives his answer on the morrow, anyway.

“I thought you would like assistance in removing the beard from your face,” Torold says, grinning as he enters with a tray that does not smell of food.

“I can do so myself, but thank you for bringing the tools.” He has been exceptionally _itchy_ for days now. Waðsige has promised that as soon as he can walk, he can take a bath in one of the large copper tubs rather than rely on warm water and cloths, but not until that time. Godric can’t decide if the woman means for her words to be inspiration or torture.

“Can you?” Torold doesn’t look convinced, so he holds out the thin-bladed knife meant for shaving. “Grasp it while holding out your arm. If you can make it to a count of thirty without shaking, I will merely keep you company while you shave.”

Godric gives him a suspicious look, but does as asked. He makes it to a count of ten before he drops the blade. “So that is what she meant,” he mutters. “Then your help, please.”

“Oriel has said that you grew hair upon your lip early enough to grow it out, but never wanted to do so,” Torold says, building a lather to smooth the way for the blade’s sharp edge.

“It itched,” Godric replies, and then holds still as the blade makes its first pass. Whatever other skills Torold possesses, it is obvious that this is one of them. It is a job swiftly done. “Thank you.” Godric presses his face into a towel that is still fragrant with lavender-scented steam. “How did you come to learn to shave others?”

“Uchered,” Torold says, and Godric tries not to wince. “Without blame, Lord Godric,” Torold continues, and Godric makes himself wait for an explanation. “Aubri tried to continue what your uncle never allowed time for—caring for those needs that Uchered was no longer capable of performing for himself. Wystan’s soldiers made Uchered frightened of unsheathed blades, and Aubri could no longer shave Uchered’s face alone. I helped whenever I was able, though some days it might have been kinder to render the man senseless first.”

Torold cleans the blade, sharpens it again, and regards Godric curiously. “You might well let me trim the last handspan from it. I think a comb would become hopelessly lost, otherwise.”

Godric touches his tangled hair. “It might, at that.  Please, it would be a kindness if you would do me that honor.”

“You saved the children of Griffon’s Door, Oriel, and myself. The honor is entirely mine, my Lord,” Torold murmurs. True to his word, Torold cuts off long lengths of hair that look to be the span of a man’s spread hand. Godric holds up one of the tangled locks, curious. He remembers his hair being darker, more like Leffeda’s. This does not seem right.

Torold wets Godric’s hair with a damp cloth and then picks up the comb, running it through Godric’s hair until there are no snags to catch on the sharp wooden teeth. He gathers up the cut hair and places it on the tray before sitting back in obvious concern. “Perhaps I should not have rushed such a thing.”

“Rushed it? I feel cleaner. This is long overdue, I think,” Godric counters, but Torold’s terse expression does not ease. “What is wrong? Am I scarred in a way that all of that tangled hair kept hidden?”

“Scarred?” Torold slowly shakes his head. “Not in the sense of a man’s physical scars. Wait here. If I asked you to walk to the closest mirror, that healer would take my hide and tan it for her next packing bundle.”

While Godric sits in confusion, Torold departs and returns after nearly ten minutes have passed, carrying a long standing mirror with the help of Waðsige. “It belongs in this room, regardless,” she explains when Godric still looks baffled. “Some of those from the Dales in the south brought superstitions to Muireb about the magic of mirrors, so none are kept in the rooms of the ill. You, however, are no longer ill, just idle.”

Torold places a wooden chair before the tall mirror before Waðsige helps Godric to rise, cross the room, and then sit heavily upon it. “There. That will count as our morning progress,” the healer says, but Godric barely hears her. He is too busy staring, trying to figure out if it is another’s ghost sitting in a long white linen shirt before the mirror.

The last time he saw his face in a reflection clearer than a disturbed mud puddle, he’d still had the roundness of youth to his features. No longer. Three years of enduring Wystan, plus two months of illness, have taken every hint of childhood. He is pale, which he expects after seeing so little sun for these past years. There is a surprising lack of scars, which does startle him, as he certainly was struck often enough to receive them.

His face is a harsh landscape of angled bones with steep valleys. His nose was broken at least four times in those years. It is thanks only to Meraud and Oriel that it is still straight, though he suspects it is larger than it might otherwise have grown to be. His hair is the angry red of a sullen fire’s banked embers. Even after being cut, it still hangs nearly to his shoulders.

Godric’s brows, the color just as bright as his hair, are a narrow line of set anger. His eyes are no longer the blue of the sky. They are diamond-hard chips of ice, like the first bitter frost that freezes the water. It’s his mouth that still gives the impression of kindness. His lips are full, the corners always hinting that they’ll turn up at the edges at any moment to smile.

He examines the silver and copper lines that surrounded the mirror. “Is this a spelled mirror?”

“No. That would be your own face that you see,” Torold says in a quiet voice. “Oriel did tell me that you might find it a bit odd.”

“Odd? I can hardly think that to be my face at all!”

Waðsige rests her hand on his shoulder. “But it is, Lord Godric. You’ve the look of a strong man, something many twice your age have yet to manage.”

Godric isn’t certain what to say in response to that.  He is two seasons past his fourteenth birthday, and looks to have been staring directly into the fires of Hel for all that time.


	9. Seiðmaðr

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-hail and it is totally nearly Friday so...yeah.

Godric dreams that night, and once again it is not a memory. He is walking through unfamiliar woods, tall trees sprouting from rocky hillsides. The cover is thick and the wood dark, despite what Godric thinks is afternoon light attempting to mist down through the foliage along with the rain. These are the woods to the west of the loch that feeds the River Nis. There is a feeling of great age in the air, as if he should stumble over a village or encampment of Picts at any moment.

Instead, he carefully rounds a tree growing at an angle from the next hill and finds himself in a tiny clearing, and within that clearing is a hut. Godric eyes it warily, noting the smoke coming from a bit of stone in the rear that says the hut was built around a proper hearth. It feels as if he is far from any village or town that would give those living here the means to trade for what they lack. Only the very brave dare to live this way…or the very dangerous.

Still, this is where his dream has led him, and it seems silly not to see where it will go. Godric knocks on the wooden door, noting the runes carved across the lintel. Fuþark. Laguia and Edda were to teach him, but still the only one he knows is carved upon the blue stone—that he only now realizes he has not seen since waking in Inbhir Nis.

When there is no answer, Godric puts his hand to the iron latch. No magic is there to prevent his entry, so he pushes the door open and goes inside. The hut is small, only one room, but warm. A ladder leads up to a dark loft built near the hearth. It isn’t as dark in here as it was outside, but lit well by bright torches that shine with magical flame. There is a shelf with several bound books and rolled scrolls, a bench padded by the furs of many animals, a staff leaning against the wall, a table that holds the remains of a meal…and a man. He is bent over a wooden desk, a grey quill moving in his hand as he writes.

“And who goes there, hmm? It’s not polite to be entering the homes of others without knocking.”

Godric stares at the man’s back before he finds his voice. “My apologies, but I _did_ knock. There was no answer, and…well…usually, no one can hear me. Or see me.”

“Is that so? And why is that?”

“I have no idea,” Godric says, still trying to figure out if he has encountered a man, a living magician, or a ghost. “Until two months ago, I’d never done this before at all.”

“Never?” The quill is dropped onto the desk as the man turns around. Godric isn’t sure what he expected, but somehow, a smiling man of middling age was not quite it. He has one pale blue eye remaining to him. The other is hidden beneath a dark leather patch, bound across his face with a soft strip of deer hide rather than sinew. His long hair and impressive beard are both the soft brown of hazel bark; his sun-burnished skin is nearly the same color. “Isn’t that interesting?”

“I really don’t know if it is or not.” Godric swipes his hair away from his face, the humidity from the forest making it stick to his skin. “I apologize that I knocked and then entered your home uninvited, though I doubt you noticed my knock at all.”

“You don’t know?” The man tilts his head. “Do you not have a teacher to tell you these things?”

Godric has no idea why that question hurts so much, not when the answer’s been true for so long. “My father and my grandmother Laguia were my teachers, but they died in Augustus of 974. My Great-grandmother Edda is another of my teachers, but I don’t know how to find her, nor do I know if she still lives. I’ve only been able to walk and see like this since I guided others through the Door I guard to protect them from—from—”

His throat locks up. He is not going to be speaking another word about that. Not right now.

He has no idea he’s dropped to his knees in this strange man’s home until there is a hand on his shoulder. Godric looks up as the bearded man kneels before him. “Has it been you I’ve been waiting for?” the man asks, though Godric doesn’t think he is the one being spoken to. “It would make sense. You’re the only one to find me in these many years. Yes, I think that is exactly how it is meant to be.”

“What is?” Godric asks, mouthing the words when no sound accompanies them.

“Well, I do appreciate a magician who can look at a rule and bend it to his whim,” the man says, smiling. “Back to bed with you now.” He gently pats Godric’s shoulder. “Have normal dreams tonight. You sought me out as you should. We’ll see each other again soon.”

Godric doesn’t slip into another dream. Instead, he sits up in bed, completely bewildered. “But who the sarding hell _are_ you?” he asks his bedchamber. His own words echo back to him in mockery.

No matter how he searches the room, or how he words his Summons, there is no hint that the blue stone with its carved rune for _Great Need_ ever existed. When Godric asks the others, they say there was no such stone on his person or in his belongings. None were found like it in the practice yard. He believes Mochán Oddrsdottir when she says that none of her Guard would have kept the stone once they received word that it was sought.

Mochán was not Weapons Master during Godric’s last visit to Inbhir Nis in early 974, but replaced old Nuall in the summer of 975. She has not forced Godric to trust her, but has slowly earned it with conversation—and by being one of the few remaining who still prove a challenge at Tafl.

“You are one of the few who do not stare at my dark skin when you think I am not aware,” Mochán confides one evening. They are playing Brigands, but an elaborate form that mimics an entire battlefield and takes up the whole of Godric’s table.

“I have been to Rome,” Godric says. “I saw skin that is much darker than yours. Though it is a wonder Ninian ever gets anything done when in your presence.”

Mochán smirks. “I’ve been tempted to take him to my bed just to let the poor sod get it out of his system, but then I worry he might think himself infatuated with me.”

“Not love?” Godric asks, and captures an entire section of her territory.

Mochán recounts what he did and then rolls her eyes to concede the loss. “No, it is not love. I might consider love and family later, but for now, I enjoy my freedom. However, were it not for your age, I would consider bedding _you_.”

Godric smiles. “I’ve already been bedded, and I am not looking for a wife or children yet.”

“You’re but fourteen!” Mochán stares at him. “With who, unless it is too pert of me to ask?”

Godric shakes his head. “It is not too pert. As their Majesties are fond of reminding me—you are not my subject, and I am not your overlord. As for who? Emma, Constance, and Nota.”

She grins at him. “At once?”

Godric is startled into laughing. “No! Not at once. Oriel said that even making the suggestion might be to begin a war between them, and I didn’t want that, even if I am not opposed to the idea. I was more concerned with making certain we didn’t become parents well before our proper time.”

Mochán captures several of his stones, and Godric hides a smile. She is so very good, but she has already lost this game by claiming that feint. “Is there no one you love, Godric of Griffon’s Door?”

Godric begins the slow trap that will end the game. “I will be the Magical Eorl over Somerset in England, Mochán. I’ve long understood that my chances at marrying for love are poor indeed.”

“So, were I to attempt to bed you…”

Godric glances up at Mochán and smiles. “I would not turn you away, but if you make the attempt before Waðsige declares me well again, I will not protect you from her wrath.”

The next morning, Findláech comes flying into the room with a scroll in his hand. “You’ve received a letter—and yes, Faramund already did the proper checks to be certain it bears no curses or poisons,” Findláech continues when Godric opens his mouth to voice concern. “It’s been a long time, but I think I recognize this seal!”

Godric takes the scroll, glad that his hands no longer shake so easily. Stamped in gold wax is a circle that encloses a meandering path leading to a stone archway. “Fosse Way,” Godric mutters, and then his eyes widen. “House of the Forked River!” He uses his thumbnail to pry up the edge of the wax and unrolls the scroll.

 

_Lady Sedemai Osanna of Gifle, House of Wessex and House of the Forked River in the realm of the Kingdom of England under the Reign of His Highness, Edward of England, House of Wessex_

_4 th Maius in the Year of Our Lord 978_

_To the Guardian of the South-Western Door on the Fosse Way_

Godric is surprised by the lack of further, proper greeting until he reads the rest of the letter. Then all he can do is smile, proud of Sedemai’s sly way of granting him news.

 

_It is the oddest thing to hear the voice of another when he is not there. I’ve discussed this aspect of magic with my mother and father, who believe it is related to our being Door Guardians. Given the look Mother exchanged with Father, I don’t think that is the whole of the truth, merely enough to satisfy their daughter’s curiosity. I will be thirteen soon enough, but the older I get, the younger they wish for me to remain._

_My heart has ached for the loss of a friend since he was placed into seclusion within his family's estate after the sudden deaths of his remaining family. There are many who do not agree with the Eorl Wystan Grypusdor’s Stewardship over Magical Somerset, but King Edgar proclaimed him thus, and so we shall all wait for the time when the rightful Heir of Leofric Isaac Grypusdor attains his majority._

_Write to me if you can, though I understand if your duties keep you from doing so. If you have a spare moment, I have discovered that squabs, while not as regal in appearance as a falcon, eagle, or owl, have a fascination for the accurate delivery of letters. Who thinks to question a squab?_

_Especially if the felled bird carries naught but a blank piece of paper in its talons._

_For now, all I wish to say is that I remember my friend, and hope one day to see him again in truth._

 

_Sedemai of Gifle_

 

*         *         *         *

 

As he gains strength and can keep to his feet for longer periods, Godric finds that he direly wishes to escape the presence of others. He has appreciated their assistance and continues to do so, but he has been trapped in this room, in this bed, completely at the mercy of others. He very much would like some time to be alone.

“Are you sad?” Findláech asks Godric when he finds that Godric has managed to ascend the southern tower by himself. Godric wedged himself into a seated position between two of the defensive stones, glad for the gentle chill of the Martius breeze that pulls the sweat from his clothes.

“I am.” Godric hesitates. “Not all of the time. You and your family make me happy, Findláech. But I never…we were not allowed to mourn. Not as we should.”

“Mother worries that you are _too_ sad,” Findláech says, biting his lip. “That if we do nothing to cheer you, you might die of it.”

Godric doesn’t scoff or dismiss the idea. There were several dire times after his father’s death when the idea of dying seemed a relief. “I will not die of sadness, and it is not only my duty to my people that will keep me from that fate.” Godric reaches out and takes Findláech’s hand, pulling him in close. “I swear to her, and to you, that I find these quiet places out of a need to grieve, and a need to think.”

Findláech nods, but is already starting to squirm in attempt to escape. It’s still easy for him to do so; Godric’s arms cannot take that sort of battle. “Think on what, Godric?”

“Many things,” Godric replies, which he knows is not a useful answer. “Does your father have a war table, Findláech?”

Findláech nods. “He used it to familiarize me with the lands around Inbhir Nis, for the times that will come when I will need to help defend it. It is partially built with magic, so the landscape can be changed! Do you want to see it?”

“I would like to ask Ruaidrí for permission to use it. Would you see to that for me, Findláech?”

Findláech grins. “Of course!” he declares, and races down the stairs. Godric watches him depart with a deep feeling of envy. He misses that sort of vitality, and hopes it will return before he’s spent the whole of the year infirm.

“A challenge,” Waðsige greets Godric on the evening of the eighth.

“You know I’ll likely accept, so why you still greet me in such a manner is truly confounding.” Godric puts aside his third, atrocious attempt at responding to Sedemai’s letter. “What is it?”

“Dress yourself appropriately on your own and walk down the hall, and you may join the royal family for supper at a proper table rather than eat within this chamber as a nigh-imprisoned guest,” Waðsige says, grinning. “Is that challenge enough for you?”

“Does it count as a success if I crawl for part of the way?”

Waðsige sighs. “Yes, I will count it a success, but you must climb into your chair without help!”

Godric puts letter, quill, and ink away with a feeling of relief. Even if he does need to crawl down the passage, he is joining his hosts at their table tonight.

There is clean linen, wool, silk, silken wool, and cotton in the chest at the foot of his bed, all of it in his size. More to his delight, none of it is black. Godric dresses in a clean linen shirt and finds a dark red, knee-length tunic woven from soft wool to wear with it, heartened by the simple Gaeil embroidery at collar, cuff, and hem. The truis are dark brown linen; the socks are more soft wool. Eilénóra made certain that even though Godric is not yet ready for boots, there are brown leather shoes with their long laces to wear, tied properly at the knee. He studies his appearance in the mirror, still unused to the glacial stare that looks back at him. The length of tunic, shirt, and truis are all correct, but they fit large on his body, the cloth meant to cover muscle he has yet to regain. Still, he has most certainly looked worse in his life.

Godric makes it to the door at the end of the hall before he has to lean against the stone, panting for breath. He did better than he thought, but it takes a full five minutes of resting before he can walk into the family’s private sitting room and greet them properly.

Findláech ignores any concept of proper manners by hugging Godric, who takes a moment to marvel over the fact that the top of the boy’s head is just below Godric’s breastbone. He knows Findláech has grown since their parting in 974, which means he must have, as well.

Ruaidrí and Eilénóra greet him with smiles and by his title, as they would a guest rather than one they’ve all but adopted as family. Godric is baffled by this until he realizes there is an old woman sitting beside Máil Brigti’s tall chair. “Great-grandmother?”

Edda grins and stands, tears shining in her eyes. “Great-grandson. I feared I might have been forgotten.”

“Never,” Godric promises, and then he is being hugged by the Saxon-born vǫlva. She smells like the mountains to the south, and of the spices that help to brew a proper ale. “I didn’t know if I should send a bird with a letter. I wasn’t certain—”

“Hush, boy.” Edda places her age-crooked finger against his lips. “I know of all that has transpired. My regret is that I could not retrieve you myself due to the very politics in which you are already educated. We shall instead be pleased that we are together now, yes?”

Godric nods. “Yes,” he agrees, feeling his heart lift. He loves his claimed family, but he misses those of his own blood, even his competitive sister. Edda’s presence is like finding solid ground after too long foundering in the mire of an endless bog.

His appetite seems to agree. It’s the first time he can recall eating everything placed before him since he was capable of taking up spoon and knife again. He might regret it later if his stomach rebels, but for now, he feels warm and content for the first time since before Augustus of 974.

During the meal, he learns that Ruaidrí asked Faramund to conspire with the magicians of Strathclyde, waiting until a moment of peace to inform Edda that her kin was safe in Muireb. Edda came to Inbhir Nis the moment she heard the news, and has only been in the castle for the past hour.

Godric tells her about the blue stone with its rune for _Great Need_ , and how he used it to part the roots and grass at Griffon’s Door. “Oh, and they asked me to remember them to you. Whoever they are,” Godric says.

Edda looks taken aback, as if she never expected to hear him speak of such things. “I certainly do remember them, though I’m not certain if they mean to mock me, or if it is genuine courtesy they offer.”

Godric holds up both hands. “I don’t know. They were polite. Odd, but polite. Only—the stone was gone when we emerged.”

“Of course it was. It was meant for a time of great need, and it performed its task as it was meant to,” Edda says, as if it is that simple. Godric thinks on her answer and decides there is no reason she cannot be correct. He is used to thinking of the complications created by every minor action for fear of what the results might bring.

“There is another reason I am here, though I would have come regardless,” Edda announces after supper has been replaced by citrus fruits that are only in season far to the south. Godric probably maims his poor orange-colored fruit in an attempt to get at the juice and meat within, and is quite honestly considering eating the thick, bitter peel. “You need a magical master for legal protection against Wystan. I can provide that.”

Godric wipes his hands clean before he can succumb to the temptation of trying to eat something he really would find disagreeable. “And I appreciate that you would offer, but I think I already have one.”

“You think?” Edda asks. “One is usually much more certain of these things, Godric.”

“One is usually far less confused by them, also.” Godric explains the odd dream he had of the middle-aged man and his hut in the woods. He describes everything he can recall, including the reality of it: how the humidity soaked his hair and clothes, how the smoke had a tang of pine, how the torches gleamed, and the runes carved across the hut’s lintel. Edda’s eyebrows rise comically as the man claims he will see Godric again soon.

“He said that he would come here.” Edda repeats, and Godric nods. “Well.” She rests her hands across the table. “Won’t that be interesting?”

“Do you know this magician, Great-grandmother?” Godric asks. “It would be nice to greet him by name.”

“The last name I knew him to use is not necessarily the name he has chosen now. He does not claim a name and keep it, but simply picks up the next word he finds that he feels most appropriate,” Edda says in the cryptic way of a true magician. “But as you sought him out and he acknowledged you…yes, you are a proper magician’s apprentice now, even if you must wait for your teacher to arrive.”

“I have to admit, I’ve never heard of a magician seeking out their teacher by way of dreaming it,” Eilénóra says. Her husband and elder son both look utterly fascinated by the conversation. “Granted, I know only the way of the Norse women and their magic. They tend to shun men who are magic-workers.”

Godric thinks that he almost—almost—remembers hearing that lesson before. “Why?”

“The Norræn believe that women are most suited to the mysteries of magic,” Edda explains, though Godric suspects some of what she says is for the benefit of the others. “We do not entirely forbid magic to men, and those who follow magic’s calling are seiðmaðr. Our difficulty is that seiðr is the most common form of Norræn magic, and for a man to practice seiðr is to name himself ragr, one who is argr—a grave insult for a man to bear. Those who are seiðmaðr often live in seclusion to avoid the constant threat of duels from those who insist a magic-wielding man must prove their worth in battle with sword or spear.”

“Then you believe this stranger Godric dreamed of—he is of the seiðmaðr, then?” Ruaidrí asks. “If he is to be a guest in this castle, then I will make certain now that all those who dwell here understand that he is _not_ to be challenged while acting as the Lord Godric’s magical teacher.”

Edda smiles at Ruaidrí. “You are, as ever, a good and wise king. If the seiðmaðr comes here, those who live by the ways of hólmganga will honor your ruling.” She tilts her head. “I am surprised that you are not voicing concern for my great-grandson’s newfound ability to walk in dreams as a waking man walks the halls.”

Ruaidrí glances at his wife and shrugs. “There is magic in both our bloodlines, even if it does not quicken in our veins. I dwell in a castle of magicians in a land full of magic and untamed wonder, Vǫlva Edda. Besides, I will not question the magical talents of a young man who did the impossible and led twenty-five companions safely through a Sacred Door.”

“Twenty-five?” Edda gives Godric a look of complete astonishment. “No one mentioned the number was so high! Are you mad, child?”

Godric thinks about battle, bloodshed, and the patience needed to fool a clever man beneath his sneering, twisted nose. “It’s highly likely that I am, yes.”

“A good magician should always be a bit mad, my mother said,” Eilénóra says in a mild voice, and that seems to be the end of it.

Edda gets on well with Faramund, but Godric despairs of his great-grandmother and Healer Waðsige ever having a moment of peace together in this life. Edda concedes that the healer has done well to repair Godric’s body and magical core, but then chastises Waðsige for everything that was not done.

Godric rolls his eyes and uses his wand to convince his chair to chase them both from his chamber. They can argue healing magic all they like, but they will not do it over him!

With Godric’s status as a magical apprentice confirmed by the Vǫlva Edda, who is held in high esteem in Alba, Strathclyde, Muireb, the Orkney Eorldom, and many of the smaller Gaeil kingdoms of the north, Godric no longer needs to hide his presence in the castle. Not even his magical teacher’s identity is necessary, though Godric thinks it would be convenient to know his master’s name when meeting the man for the first time in the flesh.

On the eighteenth of Martius, dinner has just been completed in the Great Hall downstairs when the silvery Patronus of someone’s great falcon flies into the room. It is only visible to the magicians or those who have enough magic in their blood for Sight, but even the non-magical can tell that something is occurring.

“Ruaidrí mac Domnall, Mormær of Muireb,” the eagle announces in a familiar voice. Godric thinks she is one of the elder magicians in King Edward’s Court. “We feel that all of Briton must know of this treachery. Edward of Wessex, King of the English, has been assassinated in his home of Corfe Castle this very afternoon.” The Patronus vanishes the moment its message is delivered.

“Christ Almighty,” a shocked voice rasps. Godric realizes those were his own words only when many eyes turn in his direction. He scarcely notices them, feeling his heart pound in his chest. Edward of Essex was not yet sixteen years old.

Not again. England cannot afford to lose two monarchs to assassination. Already the eorls and thanes, clergy and Heads of Houses are rattling swords and trading harsh words. His kingdom is in danger of tearing itself to pieces.

The prince Edward was his friend for these past five years. They were in Rome together, overseeing the wedding of the Frankish Emperor Otto II and his bride, Empress Consort Theophanu of Constantinople.

“Godric? Godric!”

Godric is glad that it was Eilénóra’s hand on his arm, and her voice in his ear. Had it been a man interrupting his thoughts, he would likely owe Ruaidrí or one of his men proper restitution. “What?”

“We are very sorry for your loss,” Eilénóra says gently, words that are repeated throughout the Great Hall. The loss of a king in battle is an honor, but to lose a king to treachery strikes to the heart of a man no matter their allegiance. “But we need Lord Godric, Magical Eorl of Somerset, to speak to us now. What will the loss of King Edward mean for Briton? If the south is weakened, we must all prepare.”

“I—yes.” Godric swallows down his grief, his anger.  He was taught by his father to think beyond his feelings, to see the whole of the battlefield rather than his rage. “They will place King Edward’s younger brother, Æthelred II of Wessex, on the throne. He is the only one of King Edgar’s sons remaining.”

Oriel makes the sign of the cross while Edda says something in Norse that Godric can’t quite translate. “The young prince is only twelve years old,” Faramund whispers.

Godric spends most of his evening explaining English politics to those in the north. _If_ the clergy supports Æthelred. _If_ the thanes agree to young leadership. _If_ the eorls, magical and otherwise, agree to defer to the twelve-year-old prince as their overlord. _If_ all of the powers of England can be convinced to accept the youngest prince of Wessex as their new king, England will remain whole, and it will—for now—be strong.

He escapes to the castle’s small chapel the moment he is able, stealing across the courtyard in darkness. He kneels before the familiar wooden cross with its bronze edging, thinking on how he’d like to see one like it hung in the Givelcestre church. Fraunce has one perhaps half the size of this cross, but it is made purely of gold, set with pink sapphires, red spinel, and dark rubies at the four corners to signify the blood of Christ. Godric thinks upon the humble man who sacrificed himself so that others would live, wondering what Christ would think that there are so many who would honor his sacrifice with riches that serve no purpose at all.

Godric looks down at the silver band on his middle finger, twisting it so the etched griffon is visible again. Edward had already promised to be his ally. Godric was planning part of his return to England, his reclaiming of Griffon’s Door, with Edward’s strength in mind. A man who has the ear of the king is not one who is easily turned aside. Now he has lost that strength, along with a trusted friend, and does not know what to do.

He looks up at the cross again, feeling his eyes burn. “ _How long will I take counsel in my soul, having sorrow in my heart by day? How long will my enemy be exalted over me? Look and answer me, Christ who is the Almighty; light up my eyes, lest I sleep the sleep of death, lest my enemy say, ‘I have prevailed over him,’ lest my foes rejoice because I have faltered._ ”

“David’s Thirteenth Song, from the Tehillim. I was always fond of that one.”

Godric turns to find that the brown-haired man of his waking dream is kneeling at his side, regarding the cross with idle curiosity. His hat is still upon his head, tilted at an odd angle. His right eye seems very blue in contrast to the dark leather band that crosses over his cheek. Instead of a wand, a wooden staff is resting across his legs.

“But then, there is also the fifteenth Song of David,” the magician says. “ _He who walks tall and lives in righteousness speaks the truth in his heart. He did not slander with his tongue; he did his neighbor no harm, nor did he take up anger or arms against his kinsman. A base person is despised in his eyes, and he honors the God-fearing; he swears to his own hurt and does not step back. He did not give his money with interest, nor did he accept a bribe against the innocent. He who does these shall not falter forever_.”

Godric can’t think of anything to ask except, “Who are you?”

The magician turns his head, revealing that the leather patch is fitted well over the place where his left eye had once been. “I am Stígandr of Katanes, young Lord Godric. You sought me out by the old ways of magic, so I will be your teacher.”

“Oh.” Godric fiddles with a loose thread on the cuff of his sleeve, a habit he cannot recall indulging in since he first sat in this place with the monks Bradán and Arthfæl. “What will you teach me?”

Stígandr places his hand on Godric’s shoulder. Godric can feel the power that sings in this magician’s veins, but the gesture also brings him a strange measure of peace.

“I will teach you everything that you need to know.”

 

*         *         *         *

 

_From the Guardian of the South-Western Door on the Roman Fosse Way_

_To the Lady Sedemai Osanna of Gifle, House of Wessex and House of the Forked River in the realm of the Kingdom of England under the Reign of His Highness, Æthelred II of England, House of Wessex_

_30 th Maius in the Year of Our Lord 978_

_You did not warn me that I would have to catch a squab, birds which are not often fond of men. You also failed to mention the bribery they require. I shall pay close attention to any of your suggestions in the future._

_A dear friend has finally been taken on as a magical apprentice. She protested it was not necessary, but I say it was long overdue. My great-grandmother will be good for her. My friend needs someone as stubborn as she, else the lessons may not take hold._

_I now have a teacher, as well. His name is a Norse word that has come to mean Wanderer. I suspect that will describe much of my apprenticeship. Others insist that my teacher recall that I am meant to live here and should thus be returned on occasion so others are pleased to see that I am well, but he is a wild one who reminds me of the tales of Woden. We shall see how often he obeys the whims of others._

_In truth, he reminds me very much of Woden, and I am not the only one to mention it. He wears a wide brimmed hat, is missing an eye, and bears a wooden staff rather than a wand—a staff made from a wood I have never before seen on this isle. When others tease him for appearing as Woden, he laughs and says that Óðinn is far more handsome than he._

_This magician claims he will teach me all that I will need to learn. I do not know how long that will take, or what opportunity I will have for writing letters. Pass on my good will to your parents, and I will see you again when it is time._

 

_Until then, know that you dwell within my heart._


	10. Not By Great Strength Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If I called you to my kingdom, crying out in aid for your wand to protect what is mine, would you answer?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today/Yesterday (30th June) was my fifteen year anniversary with the mate, @drougnor. I usually give out fic gifts on days like these, but I was distracted most of the day, so it's late. Here you are.
> 
> The cheer-readers have seen it but as usual, the Godric chapters are largely only beta'd by me. They still get credit for the cheer-reading, though: @norcumi, @jabberwockypie, & @sanerontheinside. (@mrsstanley decided upon bronchitis for the summer. This was a silly idea.)

Eilénóra insists that as Queen of Muireb, she will not see Godric depart from her castle wearing scraps of clothing. Godric protests that she has already given him plenty to replace what he wore when he arrived through the Door. Eilénóra raises an eyebrow and says that he is already close to outgrowing them all. Godric acquiesces, knowing that this is a battle not worth fighting. “Just not…silk,” he requests haltingly. “I’m not…fond of it.”

She nods. “Given that you wear nothing of black, and what was in your bundle…no, Godric. We’ve the means to make our linen as fine as any embroidered bit of silk—though will you oppose wool woven with silk?”

“No, that is fine.” For Godric, woolen silk is practical. It extends the wear of a cloak to all but the coldest parts of winter, when it becomes time to wrap himself in a fur and hate that the north insists upon snow and ice.

Eilénóra does not do anything so foolish as to weigh him down with clothes he will have no use for. She brings him an outfit composed of sturdy leather that will wear well over linen. There are protective magics attached that tell Godric that this is an outfit meant for battle, and he appreciates her thoughtfulness. He knows he won’t get through this magical apprenticeship without seeing at least one fight. Then there are three shirts of linen: one is meant for warm weather, one is padded against the cold with wool set between the layers of cloth, and the third is finely tailored enough for a lord’s table. She gives him two pairs of full truis as he prefers, like the ones the Norsemen wear: one pair is of thick, durable cotton, and one is constructed like the wool-padded shirt.

Godric thinks five pairs of woolen socks a bit much, but his mother often thought similarly on their usefulness. He makes a face over the necessity of the included hose. At least it is made from soft linen, not wool or silk, yet another evil that Godeva would have insisted upon. He receives larger shoes, as he did outgrow those given to him in Februarius, and finally he again has proper, tall leather boots that lace at the knee.

Godric bites his lip, thinking on his mother again, before he goes to find and embrace Eilénóra. They don’t speak when the understanding is already clear. Godric knows that she does not wish to replace Godeva—and is too late, besides—but is grateful that she cares enough to think of such things for him.

Edda gifts him a silver chain with links that won’t tangle in his hair. From it hang three stones, smooth-polished rubies, one large and two small. They look like captured drops of blood. “You will not leave this keep looking as if you own nothing,” she says as she fusses with the length of chain around his neck.

“Thank you, Great-grandmother,” Godric says, glad that she is continuing to hold true to the colors of Griffon’s Door. Even the queen made certain his clothes were a reminder—his shirts are scarlet with darker red tunics over brown truis, and often the embroidery at cuff, collar, and hem is worked with subtle lines of silver.

“I’d rather you wore more, but I know your stubbornness. Nothing for your ears?” Edda asks, teasing.

Godric hesitates. “Only if they are cuffs that do not require piercing my ears. Father always had a terrible time keeping such piercings from infecting, and I’d rather avoid discovering if I would suffer the same difficulty.”

Edda smiles. “I will keep that in mind.” She places a purse into his hands and hushes him before he can get out the first word of protest. “If your magical apprenticeship were happening as it should, this would be your stipend for the year, given to you by your mother and father so that you were not entirely beholden to your teacher. You will receive it for each year you remain a student. You may repay me when the vault for Griffon’s Door is yours once more.”

“Do you think it will be?” Godric asks, hefting the weight of the purse. His great-grandmother is being generous with her coin.

“Don’t you?” Edda counters. “Do you not think you will succeed?”

Godric shrugs. “I’ve no choice in the matter, so I cannot fail.”

Edda lifts herself up onto her toes so she can kiss his forehead. “That is my wise great-grandson, who understands that desire means nothing when needs must. I am proud of you.”

Findláech gives Godric a goblin-crafted ring of gold with a blue stone, the colors of his House. The vibrant gem is faceted and resembles the bright, green-touched blue of both the sea and his claimed little brother’s eyes. “This is so you remember us while you’re away,” Findláech explains.

“It is certainly worn in a place I’ll see often,” Godric teases, and then holds out his own gift. “This is so that you will be certain I return.”

Findláech’s hands tremble as he takes the sheathed, goblin-minted knife that was gifted to Godric by his father, the one Godric reclaimed from Pons over Wystan’s supper table. The scabbard is silver brushed with gold; the hilt is silver with a single red spinel set in the end. When Findláech unsheathes the blade, it reveals the single edge of a traditional seax. “Are you certain?”

“Well, it is most certainly known to my enemies, and would reveal my identity were I to find myself among them,” Godric says. “So it is safer left behind…but I choose for it to be left behind with my little brother, a promise that what happened before will not happen again.”

Findláech sheathes the knife and hugs Godric. “Then we’re mutually assured. You’ll return, and will help me to look after Máil Brigti as he toddles his way into finding trouble, just as a true Prince of Muireb should.”

Ruaidrí is waits until others are distracted and quietly escort Godric to the castle armory. “You came here with the clothes on your back, the ring of your House, and a dagger I’d wager was a gift meant for a child, even if it is a fine one,” Ruaidrí says. “My eldest son calls you brother, and you call him the same, meaning the word in a way few men truly understand. I will not see you leave this castle unprepared for the world. Take whatever you feel you may need. Most of what is here will need only be replaced if it is destroyed in battle.”

Godric gives him a startled look. “I’ve no coin to pay you with, not until I’m allowed legal access to the family vault when I’m eighteen.”

Ruaidrí shakes his head. “You have already paid me, and it was not coin I needed. I watched my family fear for your safety for well over three years, Lord Godric, and now our fears are eased. I have also not forgotten the brave child who sought out strangers in Rome, offering friendship without price. That child gave my family the means to see St. Peter’s Basilica, most beautiful of all God’s churches. That is a gift given to so very few, and it was granted on the strength of that child’s will and his sworn oath.”

Godric looks back to the armory. “Any suggestions, then?”

“I asked Edda where Stígandr might take you. She said she did not know. When the Vǫlva Edda does not know…” Ruaidrí smiles and spreads his arms. “Think creatively, and of how much weight you’ll want a horse to carry if swift travel is needed.”

Godric does his best, though a great deal of his time in training for heavier weapons was lost to Wystan’s treachery. He never had much use for a crossbow lest he was bashing someone with it, so he passes them by and finds the longbows. Ruaidrí is no fool, and the bows in his armory are wisely made by English and Welsh hands. Godric takes one of yew that smells of blended pine resin and beeswax. It’s of the right height as he stands now, and though it takes so much strength he’s sweating when it’s done, he manages to string it. He can barely pull back the weight on the string for a full draw, his arms shaking, but he is still recovering. In six months, perhaps less, it will be perfect.

He is not yet fifteen. His chances of growing not at all are slim, at best.

Godric runs his fingers along the bows until he finds one of ash a full foot taller than he stands now, but does not attempt to string it. He merely stands next to it as resin perfumes the air, gauging its height as compared to himself.

“That tall, do you think?” Ruaidrí asks.

Godric startles a bit, almost forgetting the other man stood in the room. “It feels right,” he answers, but it’s a daunting height. He selects three bowstrings of hemp and three of silk for both bows, though he does take another glance at the ash bow before placing it aside with the yew bow. He chooses a stiff but unadorned dark leather quiver, one full of fletched arrows. With it is a kit of stripped feathers, iron tips, smoothing stones, and the proper delicate knives to make more arrows when they are needed. He made plenty enough as a child, and doubts he’s forgotten the craft.

The right sort of sword belt is easy to find. It wraps his waist twice for support, not only with the proper means to attach any sort of pouch, but the straps are adjustable for height and the type of blade he means to carry. Again, he chooses leather that is dark brown and unadorned, though he stands surrounded by belts bearing all manner of decoration.

Behind a discarded helm is a short seax from the south in a matching sheath, apparently meant to buckle onto the front of the lower loop of a sword belt. Godric definitely likes the idea of having yet another blade so close to hand.

It’s finding a sword that is the sarding problem. A Norse blade is often double-sided where a seax is single-edged, but otherwise there is not much difference between an English sword of any size and a Norræn sword…but for the problem of a Norse man being _taller_.

Godric is in a Norse-Gaeil castle. Most of the swords he finds are too long and too heavy. The search drives him to absolute distraction until Ruaidrí gains his attention and bids Godric to follow him to a cupboard locked with iron. The sight of the lock gives Godric a sharp pang with a bite of fear that he does his best to ignore.

“I thought you might have difficulty, but I wanted to be certain of it before I showed you this,” Ruaidrí says. Then he turns and presents Godric with a wool-wrapped bundle and motions towards the table.

Godric gives Ruaidrí a cautious look and unties the bit of leather holding the bundle closed, unrolling it to find what at first glance seems like a finely crafted Norse sword built too short, perhaps the sword for an older child of a jarl. Then he takes a closer look and picks it up, feeling the same sort of delight and reverence he experienced upon seeing Rome for the first time. “Is it what I believe it to be?”

Ruaidrí smiles. “It is. A blooded Roman spatha. My father Domnall found it while overseeing the opening of a new mine for iron, though it wasn’t clear if the blade was from a barrow, or if it had fallen and was then left undisturbed until the earth covered it. We thought it to be a relic, but when the dirt was removed, the sword looked just as you see it now. Magical preservation, my father thought, and wisely asked the magicians of his Court to make certain the blade was not cursed. It is not; it merely bears strong magic imbued by the one who forged it, who meant for the sword to survive even if its bearer did not. My father’s curiosity was satisfied, and after that, his interest waned. The sword was merely proof of ancient Rome’s attempt to occupy our lands. He put it aside, and though I once held it, I did the same, as one most often prefers steel blades from a modern forge.”

Godric wraps his fingers around the sword’s grip, which fits his hand and will still do so when he is grown. He pulls it free of the dark wooden scabbard, glad to hear the smooth glide of resin-coated wood. The spatha is silver, double-edged, and deceptively simple in its appearance, but it sings when swung through the air. Most of the grip is made from a southern wood wrapped in sleek leather, but the grip is tipped by the silver beak, plumage, and hard eyes of a bird of prey. The feathers’ edges are painted in gold; the bird’s eyes are set with tiny red rubies.

He holds the sword point down at the ground and tries not to grimace as the point dances just shy of the floor. He just spent time complaining of swords that were too long and too heavy, but this one has the same faults…unless he grows taller, of course.

He sheathes the blade and holds it out to Ruaidrí, letting it rest across his open palms. “You’re certain?”

Ruaidrí closes Godric’s hands so that he grips the sheath. “My friend, I truly believe it was never meant to be anyone’s blade but yours.”

The king of Muireb leaves him to finish raiding the armory, and Godric decides it would be foolish to be leery and shy of the opportunity when doing so might save his life. He hates the weight of most plate armor, but there is a fine steel chainmail shirt that can wear over his chest and back, meaning he’ll need no assistance in dressing himself before a fight. Grieves of layered steel and bracers designed in the same fashion will protect his arms and legs, though he plans to immediately do his best to dull the color of all three items so the shine is not so obvious. He finds dark bracers to wear on his arms the rest of the time, good hard leather that will stop a knife if someone decides on foolishness and attacks when there is no battle.

A helmet is just as annoying for how much shine it carries, but Godric cannot go without. His ember-red hair is distinctive, even in the north. If he were recognized on a battlefield, it would be as if he were shouting for his English countrymen to come and claim him.

He finds a simple helm worked from bronze and steel melded together. It is properly padded inside to soften any blows, as are the three metal curtains attached to protect the ears and the back of the neck. The front has no protection but for sharp curves of metal that follow the outer curve of a his face and protrude to protect jaw and teeth, mindful of a Roman gladiator’s helm. Godric dislikes wearing helms, but approves of this one for lacking a nose guard. That bit of vanity always seemed like nothing more than waiting invitations for someone to come along and destroy both guard and the nose beneath.

Aside from the extra seax, Godric finds three more small knives to replace what he gifted to Findláech, placing a knife in each of his boots as well as another on his belt. He doesn’t want his horse to carry the weight of a shield, not when his shielding charms are excellent already. He takes a small axe, thinking more on its value as a tool rather than a weapon. He’d like to carry a spear, but he has no training in one aside from avoiding one thrown at him…and really, has he not claimed enough? He still has his wand, and this apprenticeship is to be one based in magic.

Later, Godric is always glad of the fact that he had no set expectations for how his apprenticeship should proceed. If he’d dared to consider such things, he’d have given up in despair after the first month.  Stígandr of Katanes—Caithness, Godric realizes after his English ears make sense of the Gaoidhealg sound again—goes where he wishes, when the whim strikes, at any time of day or night.

He _did_ always expect that he would tour the isle of Briton, as is proper for one of those who would be titled to defend its southwestern shores, but never thought it would be done in such a random manner, or entirely on horseback. Stígandr dislikes Síðian, and prefers to do all of his travel afoot or on a horse. Godric doesn’t mind; he mastered magical travel as a child just to escape Oriel’s style of merciless teaching. He won’t be forgetting Síðian just because of a year or three of riding.

Godric and Stígandr leave Inbhir Nis at dawn on Beltane, the first of Maius and the first day of summer. Even their horses are anxious, as if thinking their masters are trying to slip away unnoticed. Godric prefers their leave-taking to be quiet but for the need to say farewell to those guarding the gates. They ride in silence for miles, with Godric doing nothing more than watching their surroundings after they pass beyond the homes and markets of Inbhir Nis.

They stop about an hour before noon, if Godric is judging the shadows correctly. The horses are granted a break from the long trot while Godric and his teacher have at their own dinner. Godric eyes the small bit of bread with regret, thinking he is going to soon come to miss it again.

“You can duplicate it, you know,” Stígandr says without looking up from the parchment he is spreading out on the ground.

“The bread?” Godric gives it another curious look. “I don’t know how to do so.”

“No?” Stígandr seems to sigh. “If you’ve not yet eaten of it, point your wand and use the incantation _Duplici exemplari_. You could also say _duplicare_ , but I find the results are not as satisfactory.”

Godric tests it and finds he has two pieces of bread that are exactly alike. “How many times can such be done before it is a replica of appearance, but not of substance?”

Stígandr looks pleased by the question. “Five or six times, if it is as dense as it appears, though with those final duplications, there is not as much of the original atomus, the stuff of life. It will not be as useful for staving off hunger, even if it still gives one a feeling of being full. Now, look here,” he says, and points at the parchment.

Godric puts aside the duplicated bread to eat the first one and discovers that Stígandr has unfolded a map of the isles. “We’re here, then,” he says, pointing at the inlet for Inbhir Nis, though it isn’t named on the map.

“Bother,” Stígandr mutters, and taps the parchment with his fingertip. Lettering for Inbhir Nis appears with a tiny, rounded mark to show where it dwells. He points at the north-easternmost part of Briton. “This is Gallaibh, Katanaes—Caithness in your English. The Jarls of Orkney control it, but they pay homage to Ruaidrí mac Domnall for holding a Mormærdom of the north, just as they must pay homage to the King of Noregi across the sea for holding land in that kingdom’s name. We will visit Katanes, and perhaps the Orkneys, too, but not today.

“All of this is held by Muireb,” Stígandr continues, waving his hand over much of the north of the isle, with slight borders to denote lands held by mærs and thanes loyal to Muireb. “The Mormærdom of Buchan is here, east of Inbhir Nis, and is the easternmost of lands held by the lords who bow to the High King of the North.”

“Who _is_ the High King of the North?” Godric asks. “None have ever mentioned him.”

“The Mormærdom of Màrr is to the southwest of Buchan,” Stígandr continues as if Godric had not spoken, “and it is as old as Buchan. They were once held by the same kingdom, the Picts of Ke. South of Màrr is the Mormærdom of Aonghas. Together with A’Mhaoirne, it was once the land of the Picts of Kirkinn. The Mormærdom of Athall, west of Aonghas, was home to the Fotla Picts, while the Fib lived in what is now the Mormærdom of Fìobha. The Mormærdom of Loch Abar is here to the southwest of Athall.

“The rest of the north…” Stígandr touches the land south of Màrr, east of Aonghas, what surrounds Fìobha, is east of Loch Abar, and what King Edgar gave to Alba north of the Lammermuir Hills. In truth, it is very little land at all when compared to the vastness of Muireb. “That is what belongs to Alba, and Alba alone. It is why Cináed mac Maíl Coluim and the kings before him have fought until all but Muireb and Katanes pay them homage.

“You asked what man stands as High King of the North?” Stígandr looks at Godric, amused. “Cináed wishes it to be himself, but he holds a small kingdom built from alliances with other kings, and does not have the strength to declare himself. Ruaidrí could name himself High King, but will not, as he fears it will disturb the current peace in the north of Briton.”

Godric nods. “Given what strife England may face, I find I cannot fault him for that decision.”

“It is a decision he may come to regret, but that is not my task. My task is to educate you.” Stígandr points at the map again. “One day we will visit all of the mormærdoms that pledge to Alba, and even Alba itself, but not now. Today we ride to the south and the west, remaining in Muireb until we reach the Hills of Arthwys. Then we ride into the Kingdom of Cumbria.”

Godric frowns at his teacher. “You mean Strathclyde.”

Stígandr looks offended. “That is exactly what I said, yes.”

Godric decides it isn’t worth arguing to say that Cumbria might be composed of men who call themselves Cumbrians, but the land hasn’t been known by that name in two centuries. Perhaps the Cumbrians label their own kingdom differently than their English neighbors?

Yes. Yes, they do. They’re quite _loud_ about being the Kingdom of Cumbria. Godric apologizes and wards them off, begging mercy for his ringing ears.

After gaining their forgiveness, Godric approaches his teacher in privacy. “Why have we traveled here when I am currently allied to a household to which they might take offense? The Cumbrians, those of Alba, and the Moravians are not exactly known for their tolerance of one another.”

Stígandr waves away his concerns. “It’s amazing what a woman’s company will do for one man’s tolerance of another.”

Godric has no idea what the mad magician is speaking of until they arrive in the city of Ghobhainn. That is when Godric finally learns that King Máel Coluim ab Dyfnwal wed Princess Anleta Nic Cineada, daughter of Cináed mac Maíl Coluim, King of Alba. Cináed has decided to leave Strathclyde in peace, whereas in the previous decade, he was set on obliterating it due to a grudge with Maíl Coluim’s father, King Dyfnwal ab Owain. Máel Coluim and Anleta have been wed long enough to be expecting their first child, and Godric knew nothing of it.

“Well…that should…calm tempers. I suppose,” Godric says as he attempts to make sense of this new political landscape.

“Oh, someone will stab someone else soon enough,” Stígandr says blithely. Godric rolls his eyes. “I wager it will be about ten years of peace until one man finds offence with another, and then the fighting will begin anew.”

“That does explain what the political ploy was, though.” Godric considers it. “Or perhaps not.”

“What political ploy? Are you speaking nonsense again?” Stígandr asks.

“No, I most often leave such to you,” Godric replies. “During King Edgar’s coronation in Baðan five years ago, my father noted that the kings of Alba and Strathclyde were behaving themselves, which was not to their character. He suspected a political ploy. It never occurred to us that they might actually be arranging a marriage alliance instead of mischief.”

“They did gain a longer shared border,” Stígandr says, as if in reminder. Godric nods, thinking on Alba and Strathclyde’s pledges to Edgar to stand with England in times of trouble. It seems odd that all those who made the pledge have done exactly that. Except for Wystan’s magic and the assassinations of Edgar and Edward of Wessex, most of Briton has enjoyed a time of peace. It’s the coastal lands of the Cymru that see the worst fighting as the Norse and Gaeil of Éireann continue to assault their shores, but even that is being held at bay by capable rulers.

“Why give Laudian—”

“Lodainn,” Stígandr corrects.

“Fine. Why would King Edgar give Lodainn to the king of Alba?” Godric asks, frustrated. “He gave up English territory in Northumbria on a plan crafted by _Northumbrian_ eorls of Jórvík and Bebbanburgh, along with the Bishop of Lindisfarena. The rest of Northumbria protested this loss of their lands and were ignored. By tactics, it makes sense for those three to have done so if they had already pledged themselves to Alba if Edgar agreed to give up Lodainn, but King Edgar received _nothing_ from making such a deal. He gave two rival kingdoms advantages over England and kept none for himself. _Why_?”

“Perhaps Edgar of Wessex had faith that Alba and Strathclyde would keep to their oaths,” Stígandr suggests, but then he grants Godric a twisted smile. “Or perhaps the decision was arrogance on Edgar’s part, thinking himself like the Emperor Otto of the Franks after his gaudy coronation.”

“You mean King Edgar wanted the other kingdoms of Briton to think of himself as their overlord, just as the mormærdoms pledge themselves to Alba,” Godric says, and Stígandr nods. “But that didn’t happen.”

“No, it did not. Edgar’s death saw to that. Young Edward was too young to ask others to grant him the same honor as his father, and now he, too, is dead.”

Godric looks down at the ground. “Edward of Wessex was my friend.”

“That does not change the fact that he is dead,” Stígandr remarks.

“No, but you need not scorn his murder.”

“Ah, you’re going to see if it’s possible to civilize me again.” Stígandr sighs. “Better you make the attempt with myself rather than Myrddin, I suppose.”

Godric looks up. “You know Myrddin Wyllt?”

Stígandr mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like, “Sarding goat.” Godric takes that to be an affirmative answer.

Stígandr and Godric stay among the Cumbrians for a fortnight. They share every supper at the high table with the king, his family, and his most trusted advisors. Godric comes to know Máel Coluim ab Dyfnwal and Queen Anleta Nic Cineada quite well. He would not exactly call them friends, but they are interesting, educated company.

“If I called you to my kingdom, crying out in aid for your wand to protect what is mine, would you answer?” Máel Coluim asks on their last evening.

Godric looks up from his trencher in surprise. “If I were not in the midst of troubles of my own and could away, I would answer—but as your ally, not your vassal.”

Máel Coluim smiles and holds out his hand. “When you have reclaimed what is yours, I look forward to discovering what the Eorldom of Somerset and the Kingdom of Cumbria can do for each other, Lord Godric.”

Godric dares not hesitate, reaching over the table to clasp Máel Coluim’s arm. “As do I.”

“Should you have done that?” Stígandr asks in a mild voice before they sleep that night. “Should you have pledged yourself in such a fashion?”

“I’ve no sarding idea at all,” Godric replies, and Stígandr laughs.

When they depart the next day, Godric keeps his own counsel, riding in content silence, until he realizes they’re headed southwest. “Where are we going now?”

“To learn that English maps are not as reliable as England likes to believe.”

That evening, Godric discovers that the Kingdom of Galloway still exists, despite history’s claims of it being taken and claimed as Saxon Bernicia. Galloway is a southwest corner labeled as Strathclyde on English maps, and the kingdom holds within its borders a great community of magic users. Aside from those Godric is used to seeing in Briton, there are unbowed Picts and Britons from the surviving northern and southern tribes, Norræn who have never mingled their blood with the people of the isles, Gaeils who’ve never mingled with the Norræn, men of the varying Hebrides isles, the Manx from the Isle of Man, those few who are still pureblooded Saxon, magicians of Cornwall, and even travelers from Brittany.

Godric isn’t certain what he is meant to learn in this place. Stígandr gives him no specific instructions, so he asks to be taught by those who seem to be doing the most interesting thing of a morning, whether it be with weapons or magic.

He quickly discovers he has a previously unrecognized new difficulty. Godric’s ability to cast charms is not in doubt, and he has successes even with new spells.

Transfiguration is another matter entirely.

“You’re certain you meant only to transfigure it into a large embroidery needle, as one of the women spoke of a need for one,” Stígandr says.

“I did,” Godric responds.

Stígandr regards Godric’s mishap. “And you began the spell with an arrowhead.”

“Yes.”

Stígandr picks up the leather belt pouch that was once an arrowhead. “I like it, and this is permanent transfiguration, too. Excellent job.”

“But—but how do I _fix_ it?” Godric yells after him as Stígandr leaves with his claimed belt pouch. He doesn’t even know how he turned metal into leather, much less enough leather to form a larger object than the arrowhead!

“Try again!” Stígandr retorts, and proceeds to ignore him.

Godric turns an acorn into a squash, a man’s discarded shoe lacing into an adder (which no one appreciates), and a girl’s torn hair covering into a pair of cutting shears. He looks down at his wand, looks at three more failed attempts at embroidery needles, and wants very much for his world to make sense again.

“Stígandr…do you think a person can change?” Godric asks hesitantly, joining the older man to sit with him on the riverbank.

“Of course I do. Men do so every day. Often not for the better, but that is mankind for you,” Stígandr replies.

“When I was a child, I could transfigure objects into what I wished them to be, though without a wand, that was not often.” Godric fidgets with his wand in his hands. The sun is lower in the sky, painting his wand scarlet with darker, blood-like lines. “But all of those changed items became what they once were when the magic wore off. Now, everything I transfigure is permanently something new; the magic does not go away. Am I changed because I chose to walk through the Door? Is there something wrong with me?”

Stígandr plucks a mint leaf from a nearby bush and chews on it. “There is no one in creation who would not be changed if they were to walk through one of the Sacred Doors,” he finally says. “I think even the gods would need to stop and take notice if they did so. No, Godric af Grypusdor. There is nothing wrong with you, and so much that is right that I scarcely know where to begin in order to be worthy of educating you.”

Godric looks over at him in surprise. “But I—you’re—”

“Old and wise are not synonyms, no matter how much others might wish them to be,” Stígandr interrupts him, selecting another fragrant mint leaf. “You say that everything you transfigure is permanently changed? That is a rare talent, Godric, but it is one you do not yet understand how to harness. Do not despair because you cannot; rejoice because you can. Understanding will come in its own time.”

They’re still in Galloway when Godric turns fifteen on the nineteenth day of Iunius. No one celebrates the occasion, and Godric finds that he’s glad. He doesn’t yet wish to celebrate the day of his birth. His eleventh birthday gifted him his wand, but his twelfth, thirteenth, and fourteenth birthdays were spent in a home that had become a hell. Too many of his people are still trapped in that darkness, and he will not have cause to be merry on the day of his birth until they are free. He will simply kneel to the Maker in the local church and be grateful that on his fifteenth birthday, his day passes in peace.

“I miss you, Mother,” Godric says, lighting the first of the four candles he brought to place before the altar. “Your kindness. Your humor. Your smile. You understood what it was to enjoy all of life. I miss the knowledge that to go to you was to always find love.”

He lights the second candle. “I miss you as well, Father. You were not often kind, but you were wise, and you loved us. You taught me well, and I survived. The holy book says that one should not seek vengeance in some verses, but claims it righteousness in others. No matter which is true, I do not have much choice but to avenge your death.”

Godric lights the third candle. “Alfrid. I know so little of you. You are gone to a place where you can continue to grow, but I cannot witness it. I miss your laughter, little brother.”

The fourth candle is hardest. “Grandmother Laguia, my teacher. Would you be glad that I have learned to See as you once wished? I played the Game of Sight with Findláech in Muireb. I remembered all fifty objects hidden by the cloth, every time. Findláech challenged me to remember one hundred of them. That, I cannot yet do…but maybe one day I will.

“You were right, though I know you wished not to be. Wystan Grypusdor does not deserve to be named after the good man who was his father.”

Godric sits back on his haunches, regarding the burning beeswax candles. “Instead of grief, it was darkness I beheld, and darkness I drowned in until my heart and spirit were so very weary. I feel that way still, even while surrounded by the laughter and joy of the living. The Almighty’s book says that _When calamity comes, the wicked are brought down, but even in death the righteous have a refuge_. I hope you have that refuge, all of you, and that it is a place of warmth and light. God knows I don’t know if I’ve enough warmth left for myself to keep doing as I must, but if I was asked, I’d give it all to you.”

“I’d linger more on another of the Songs,” Stígandr says, startling Godric. “ _For His anger is but a moment, but His favor is for life; weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning_.”

Godric acknowledges Stígandr’s words with a nod. “Sometimes those mornings are a long time in coming.”

“Sometimes,” Stígandr agrees. “It is also good to recall that _No king is saved by the size of his army; no warrior escapes by his great strength alone_.”

“The Songs again,” Godric says of the quote. Stígandr has a great affection for the Songs of David. “I know that you’re not Christian. What is it that you really believe?”

Stígandr seems to be sucking on his own teeth as he thinks. “I believe it a fine thing to honor the dead, to remember them as they were. I find it helps to know that even if they are beyond our reach, they are not lost to us. My kin wait for me in the halls of my ancestors, and that is a comfort.”

“How many have been lost to you?” Godric asks softly.

“Quite a few,” Stígandr replies. “I’ve lived a long time. Older than I look.” He presses his lips together before gazing at Godric with his single, sharp blue eye. “You remind me of one of my sons. He was strong, a fierce one in a battle. He would not turn away from one if it came, but he fought when necessary, not on whim. He was bright and merry to all who knew him, but if you looked close, you could see that he carried a heavy burden of knowledge in his heart.”

Godric feels a chill creep up his spine. “What knowledge?”

Stígandr blinks a few times, almost as if he’d forgotten Godric was there. “My son always remembered that all men falter. All men die. Alone, he was burdened, but when in the company of others, he celebrated that time with the understanding that every moment might be their last.”

“What happened to him?”

“He fought a worm,” Stígandr says, “a great, strange beast of uncertain origin. It was a maddened creature that threatened the safety of those living nearby. My son was as cautious as one can be when fighting madness itself, but in the end, he had to choose between his own life and the lives of those he meant to protect. Though he killed the worm, there was no one to save my son when he died of the worm’s venom.”

Godric considers what kind of man his teacher seems to be, and decides that sympathy would probably be turned away. “You tell a tale similar to the fate that the god Þor is meant to suffer, written of in the great ballads, and yet you are surprised when so many compare you to Woden.”

Stígandr reaches up and settles his hat more firmly upon his head. “I never said I wasn’t.” He leaves the church while Godric stares after him, jaw hanging open.

“You’re teasing me!” he yells.

“And what a wonderful cure for grief is vexation with another!” Stígandr calls back cheerfully.

Godric turns back to his four candles, which are still burning with no intent of sputtering out. “He’s right,” Godric mutters in exasperation. “I’m _far_ too vexed to grieve at the moment, as I wish to make him eat that hat!”


	11. Ever-Changing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He strikes me as cruel. He could be another like Wystan if he’d been born with magic enough. If I were not aware of my lack of skill, I’d challenge him to a duel just for his kingdom to be rid of him.”  
> “Oh? You would like to govern a kingdom in the north as well as an eorldom in the south?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cheer-beta's have hailed it good, so any remaining mistakes are mine. Also there are Feels.

Godric dreams of Sedemai that night, and is immediately, desperately uncomfortable, but he doesn’t know how to leave without throwing himself from a window. Given that he recalls Sedemai’s chambers to be in one of the towers of her home, Godric doesn’t wish to find out if the fall would kill him.

She is readying herself for bed. Godric covers his eyes with both hands as she finishes unlacing her dress, but still sees a flash of her pale blue cemes over her breast.

He must have made some noise. “Who is there?” she asks.

“I swear I’m not looking!” Godric declares in a pathetic whine. “Hands are over my eyes, I swear to the Almighty!”

“Godric! Wait, please.” He hears the rustle of cloth. “You can open your eyes now. I assure you, you won’t be dishonoring me.”

Godric cracks open one eye and finds that Sedemai has wrapped herself in her bed’s quilt, though her wand is close to hand. “I’m…really sorry. I didn’t…I still don’t know how it is I do this.”

“I was thinking of you today,” Sedemai says quietly, her eyes tracking the sound of his voice. She seems to have gained more freckles with the summer. “Happiness to you on the day of your birth.”

“Thank you.” Godric doesn’t want to spoil her mood by saying he doesn’t wish to celebrate it. “How—how are you?”

“Plotting, of course,” Sedemai replies. She reminds him of Stígandr in that moment, speaking of things as if he should have been aware of them already. “We three have been quietly speaking to the other magicians of Somerset.”

“Saying what?” Godric asks in alarm. He has no wish for the House of the Forked River to endanger itself. Not even the Wessex blood in her veins would protect Sedemai from Rychard and Wystan.

“Only that the Heir of Griffon’s Door and the Magical Eorldom of Somerset is seeing to his magical education with a proper apprenticeship, of course,” Sedemai replies with an impish smile. “And that it is being carried out in the north, so that the future Eorl will be educated in the ways of England’s allies if they choose to become enemies.”

That should be harmless enough. Wystan can no longer send anyone of England or the Magician’s Council to retrieve Godric, not when his apprenticeship is binding and legal. Besides, he suspects Edda might kill anyone who tried. “And…what do they say?”

“Not much, of yet. That pall of magic…” Sedemai draws her quilt closer to herself and shivers. “Once one is aware of its true nature, it is terrible, Godric. The other magicians are heartened by our news of your apprenticeship, but that is all. They do not think beyond Wystan Grypusdor’s control of Magical Somerset, but all Father and Mother meant to sow were the seeds of your rightful return.”

Sedemai chews on the corner of her fingernail for a moment. Godric waits, content to watch. Her hair is still as bright as true flame, and the curls have tightened into long locks that look as if they would spring immediately back into place if pulled. He’s glad to see his friend thriving, but he really does need to figure out how to control these instances of dream-walking. Sedemai is growing older, and that could lead to an event far more awkward than a glimpse of a girl’s cemes.

“If you were to, oh, pass along what you learn. By letter, I think,” Sedemai decides. “Sometimes I’m not certain if I’m awake for these moments or if I am dreaming them with you. A letter is certain when a dream might be recalled wrong.”

“Then I promise I will do my best,” Godric vows. Then he says, hesitantly, “I wear the ring of my claimed younger brother in the north, a reminder of his friendship. It would be…it would be kind if you were able to send some token of your own to me, so that I would be mindful of my friend in the south, as well.”

Sedemai smiles. “A token? Perhaps I could arrange something, though that will certainly anger the next squab I bribe to carry it. Tell me what region you dwell in, though not where, and my friend will find you.”

“Have it sent to Muireb, as I think that safest, though for now I am in Galloway,” Godric answers. “Sedemai, it’s amazing here. I think you should see it one day for yourself.”

Sedemai ducks her head, still smiling. “I’d rather see it in your company.”

Godric is still puzzling through that when he wakes. She could easily journey to Galloway with her parents. What reason would she have to ask for his company instead?

Wait. Oh, God Almighty. Is he flirting with her? Is _she_ flirting with him?

Godric groans aloud and pulls his pillow over his face. He didn’t intend to do so! Sedemai is thirteen and a child still, though at the same age Godric could not claim the same.

He meant an innocent token, as Findláech gave to him! Sarding hell, if the Lady Osthryth doesn’t kill him, then Sir Gabell might well consider it.

The next morning, Godric goes straight to Stígandr without even breaking his fast. “How do I control dream-walking?” he asks, aware that he sounds a bit desperate.

Stígandr raises one eyebrow, his morning cup of mint-infused honey with barley paused at his lips. Honey and barley, Godric understands, but the addition of mint is foul. “I am not a dream-walker, Godric.”

Godric sits at the table and puts his head down on the tabletop. “I nearly spied upon an innocent in the midst of ready for bed last night, Stígandr. I can’t let that happen again, even if I were to hold my tongue and never reveal my presence!”

“For a man who has already bedded others, you have some odd ideas on the preservation of a woman’s innocence,” Stígandr says. “We will eventually return to Inbhir Nis for a time. Your great-grandmother will be able to help you with this difficulty, Godric. Does it happen often?”

“No.” Godric lifts his head. “Only when I have been…oh. Only when I am troubled.”

“Like yestereve.” Stígandr nods. “Continue to learn from whom you choose among the magicians who live in Galloway, Godric. It is never good to rely on the knowledge of one magician alone, and there are magicians here who know of things that I might never have encountered.”

“Might,” Godric repeats, amused. “I rather doubt that.”

Stígandr returns his attention to his morning cup. “Believe what you like. The world is ever-changing, and so magic is ever-changing, as well.”

Godric is beginning to suspect that Stígandr is allowing him this freedom in order to see what it is that Godric knows of magic, and what he does not. He doesn’t mind; Godric isn’t certain of what he knows and doesn’t know, either, and he enjoys the challenges that those of Galloway are willing to provide. He continues to have no difficulty with charms, though he finds that the spells meant for defence and war capture his interest more than those meant to duplicate bread. He learns bits of Pictish magic, spells from the Britons, and interesting tricks of magic from the Gaeil. It’s the Norse who do not teach, but Godric doesn’t take offence. They have strong feelings about magic being the realm of women, though they tolerate male magicians who are not of the Norræn. Those of Cornwall teach Godric stories of legendary enchantments, but also show him how to craft physical items embued with magic that can do great or terrible things, depending on his need. He thanks them carefully for those lesson, understanding that they have granted him an act of great trust.

One of the local Pictish women takes Godric under her wing to explain the nature of plants to him in a way none had before yet bothered. His grandmother Laguia ensured that Godric knew their names and their varying appearances, but he had only vague ideas of what they could do. The Pictish woman, who proudly bears the name Bouddiga after the famous Ekeni queen who defied the Romans, is pleased that once a lesson is learned, it does not need to be repeated to him. Godric explains that he never forgets, not anything, unless terrible magic is used to make him.

Bouddiga nods. “We know of the foul pall that covers the south of the isle. That you remember much of it as you should means you are strong. Come. Today I will teach you how to make healing brews that require no magic, merely knowledge. If you choose to be a warrior of our homeland, you will need to know how to mend yourself and others.” When those lessons are done, she also shows him how to craft the magical brews for healing, though it is a Gaeil woman named Káris who teaches Godric a charm meant to preserve them until they’re needed.

Godric holds up the small glass phial of a healing potion, already treated to the preservation charm. “How long does it last, this preservation?”

“It depends on the strength of your magic, but they will also last as long as something lingers to fuel the spell,” Káris answers. “The charm works on all but living things.”

Godric puts the phial away in his belt pouch. “Why not the living?”

Káris considers his question, her aging brow furrowed in thought. “I will alter my words. There may be conditions upon which preservation charms can be used upon the living, but it would a great working of magic such as we have rarely ever seen in this world.”

“Of course, there are those who would use foul magic to preserve themselves rather than mere charms,” her wife Hrafn mutters.

“He’s but a boy. Quiet your tongue of such things!”

Hrafn rolls her eyes at Káris. “He is no boy, and we both know it.”

“What foul magics?” Godric asks. “If my uncle has done such a thing to preserve himself, I would need to know how to stop him.”

Hrafn looks at Káris, pleased to have won the argument. “In your tongue, they are called Horcrux. A jar for evil. We most often call them soul jars for ease of understanding between the many tongues of our island.” What she tells Godric about soul jars gives him nightmares that night, the first time he has had terrible dreams unrelated to Griffon’s Door since escaping it.

 _Christ who is Lord, please let Wystan not have done such a thing_ , Godric prays upon waking. He could easily see his uncle willing to turn a living being into a Horcrux for his own purposes.

Many magicians volunteer to help Godric finalize his lessons in Mind Magic. It’s a relief to know that he was so close, and that he did well against Wystan’s incursions.

“There.” Stígandr clasps Godric’s shoulder. “Now you can claim your first magical mastery—the defence of the mind.”

“I hadn’t realized it was considered a mastery,” Godric says in surprise.

“Of course it is. Its higher forms require magic, and all magic can be learned and mastered,” Stígandr retorts. “Now that you have finished that lesson, let us see what you know of numbers.”

There are academic travelers from Brittany, ones who have visited every library of the East and West, who decide to challenge Godric on his mathematical skills. Godric tries to hide from them; he didn’t like maths as a youth dealing with tutors, and isn’t much fond of the idea now.

A warrior from Éireann, Suibhne, makes the lessons bearable by suggesting the academics apply all of their mathematical lessons in terms of warfare. Godric is far more inclined to learn the meanings of algebra and geometry to calculate the arc of a catapulta. That is _useful_. He understands that it might be good to be versed well enough in maths to know how to discern the distance between distant stars, but he doesn’t sarding well want to know that much about stars in the first place. They are hot burning fires whose patterns are set well enough to be useful for finding his way in the night and for determining the length of a season, but unless someone is telling a story about those beings the stars are named for, Godric doesn’t care.

They leave Galloway on Lammas. Their return to Muireb is much slower than their Maius departure, as Stígandr insists upon stopping in every single kingdom along the way. They bypass Ghobhainn in Cumbria and follow the northwest coast into Loch Abar, greeting the Mormær Cináed, who is married to Dunclina nic Cináeda. At age eighteen, she is the youngest daughter of the King of Alba. Cináed and Dunclina don’t quite seem to know what to do with each other yet, making Godric suspect an arranged marriage, but at least they both want children. That is a place to start, even if he hopes they will be happy together for other reasons.

They’re trapped there for four days due to the weather and the need to rest the horses. Fortunately, Godric also never forgets a story once he’s heard it, and spends much of those days keeping the little ones of the keep occupied.  He notices Stígandr give him several odd looks during that time, but ignores them when Stígandr appears to be in no hurry to explain himself. Godric will find out when Stígandr is in the mood to speak, which is surprisingly rare for someone who is meant to be teaching. He supposes Stígandr’s life alone in the middle of the Highland forest might have left him unpracticed at speaking with others.

Then comes the long ride southeast, skirting the foothills, to be welcomed in Fiobh. Godric is introduced to the Mormær Drustan and his five sisters, each of whom separately asks Godric if he knows of any eligible females of marrying age for their brother before the idiot dies without Heirs. Godric suggests they might wish to begin marrying and producing Heirs themselves, as he’s seen Drustan’s eyes linger on men quite often during supper, but has not yet seen Drustan gaze upon a woman in the same manner. He tells Stígandr about it later, who laughs until he is wheezing for breath. He claims that a man named Donnchad owes him quite a bit of coin for wagering that Drustan just needed to be introduced to the right sort of woman.

“Yes. One with a pintel and a beard,” Godric says, and Stígandr starts wheezing again. “The Picts are quite welcoming about that sort of thing, so perhaps there is a woman out there with those qualifications…”

Stígandr holds up his hands. “Silence, I beg you! I’m an old man who needs to be able to breathe!” Godric nods and leaves their assigned chambers. He has a meeting arranged with the youngest of Drustan’s sisters for an evening that does not involve marriage and children, but certainly practice at making the latter.

They remain in Fìobha for two nights, as Sgàin is only a day’s right to the north. Godric has an increasingly bad feeling the closer they come to the village that surrounds the royal keep, gripping his horse’s reins tightly in effort not to bite his lip.

“What?” Stígandr asks crossly.

“I would really prefer not to meet this man. I don’t believe we’ll get on well,” Godric says.

“And what tells you that?”

“I don’t know. I never had opportunity to meet him before,” Godric is forced to admit. “It’s just…can we not simply go north into Aonghas?”

“No. It would be impolite.” Stígandr gives him a brief glance. “We will be watchful. A magician’s instincts are never to be doubted, no matter their age.”

“And what do your instincts tell you?” Godric asks.

“Quite honestly? I’d much rather beat this man in the face with my staff than converse civilly with him,” Stígandr says, and Godric smiles. “Cináed is good to have at the table when it is politics to be discussed, but the King of Alba has a temper, and easily holds grudges that can last for years. I still don’t know how Anleta convinced her brother to allow her marriage to King Máel Coluim…unless Anleta left King Cináed with no choice in the matter.”

“Ah.” Godric nods in understanding. “You refer to the sort of romantic tale of how two lovers will be wed or not, and if King Cináed is wise, he’ll use the situation to his advantage instead of scowling about it for a decade.”

“Try three decades,” Stígandr says dryly. “If Cináed were to live that long.”

After they cross the River Tatha, Godric finds himself enjoying the intense greenery surrounding the village of Sgàin, which is mindful of the vibrant hills around Inbhir Nis. Entering the village attracts the usual gaggle of curious children, who put their hands on the horses and chatter about visitors and ask where they are going, all without stopping for breath.

Stígandr points out the stone church on a hill. “There rests the Coronation Stone, as you would call it in the south. The Stone of Sgàin —An Lia Fàil.”

“Who are the monks?” Godric asks when he sees one emerge from the small church. It seems a small building to host the coronation of kings.

“The Céli Dé, a religious order from Éireann. They call themselves the Companions of God. They’re harmless, even for men of God.”

Godric wants to refute the implication that men of God are harmful, but cannot. He endured Fraunce the stick-priest too often to be so foolish.

Godric does not like Cináed mac Maíl Coluim, Rioghachd na h’Albannach. In point of fact, Godric is all but certain he hates the man at first meeting. However, he was not trained by his father’s tutors for life in Court to serve no purpose at all, so he is at his best when they lead their horses across the court yard to greet His Highness and the loyal thegns in his company. Godric nods greetings—or clasps arms, when such is offered—first to Cináed’s sons, Dúngal mac Cinaeda and Máel Coluim mac Cináeda. Dúngal has no wife, despite being elder, but Máel Coluim is wed to Ælfgifu Sigurdsdóttir of Osraige in Éireann, now called the Lady of Athall. Many of the king’s mærs—Godric thinks the closest translation of their role would be that of a hlaford —and þegn are present, those who oversee the lands such as Leamhnachd, A’Mhaoirne, Srath Èireann, Argyle, Lodainn, and Tèadhaich, or the villages of Obar Dheathain, Breichin, Dùn Chailleann, Eidyn Buhr, Ghàidheal, Glaschu, Dùn Bhlàthain, and Sgàin itself.

Cináed mac Maíl Coluim is a stout man, almost squat, who is Godric’s height, dark-haired and dark-eyed like a Briton, but he is almost swarthy instead of pale. “So you are the lad who has misplaced his eorldom,” he says while gripping Godric’s arm in greeting—too tight, as well. If he thinks to cause pain, he is being too gentle.

Godric gives the king a bland look, ignoring the tittering laughter emerging from the mouths of a dozen fools. “It’s hard to consider such to be misplaced when I know exactly where to find it, My Lord. Somerset will still be there when it is time to be reclaimed.”

“And when will that be, young Lord Godric?” Cináed asks.

“Inheritance law in Alba is age eighteen, just as it is in England, yes?” Godric waits for the king to nod. “Then that is when I will be doing so.”

“And you do what in the meantime?” Prince Dúngal asks, sneering. “Ride about on your horse in the north?”

“Well, I am certainly doing plenty of that,” Godric retorts with mild humor, mindful of his audience. He sees a few smiles and suspects that Dúngal is not as well-liked as his younger, wedded siblings. “Of course, I _am_ using the time I am forced to spend waiting to learn how to kill the sarding stain on my father’s bloodline, burn the body, and toss his ashes into a pig’s sty.”

Cináed’s smile is wide, pleased, and possibly the least cruel expression the man knows how to make. “It is good to see that the southern English are not weak. Welcome to my home in Sgàin, Lord Godric. You are welcome in my halls for as long as yourself and Stígandr of Katanes wish to remain.”

Stígandr holds up his hand when they are alone in the chambers they are granted, signaling for silence. Godric waits as the man makes several motions with his staff and gives the stone floor a firm thump with the end. “Removing any charms meant for our words to be overheard.”

“We’ve stayed in other homes. Why have you not done so then?” Godric asks.

“I did,” Stígandr replies, but seems too distracted to sound irritable. “You were not meant to notice. Now that we have been together for a time, I made certain you did, especially when we dwell in the halls of Royal Alba.” Stígandr turns around and smiles at Godric. “What did you think of Alba’s overlord?”

Godric scowls and flops down on a padded bench. “He strikes me as cruel. He could be another like Wystan if he’d been born with magic enough. If I were not aware of my lack of skill, I’d challenge him to a duel just for his kingdom to be rid of him.”

“Oh?” Stígandr looks amused. “You would like to govern a kingdom in the north as well as an eorldom in the south?”

Godric makes a face of revulsion. “By Christ, I hope that never comes to pass. Never mind. I’ll let someone else kill the current King of Alba. If he challenges all his visitors with strength and words, he’ll offend someone else soon enough.”

“I told you before, student—often in the matter of such men as he, one merely need wait a while, and someone else will rid the world of their unpleasantness for you.”

While in Sgàin, Godric gets his arse thrashed no less than sixteen times by Alba’s royal guard, and several times more by Prince Máel Coluim. “You are quite good for your age,” the prince says, leaning on his sword while Godric tries to consider if it’s worth getting up from the ground.

“My sore limbs and bruises appreciate such a fine compliment, Máel Coluim.”

Máel Coluim grins. “I’m a blooded man of twenty-four. It was a compliment well-intended. You will not have to keep relearning the sword once you’ve grown to your true height, Godric.”

Godric rolls over onto his side, sitting up with a groan. “That’s what I keep telling myself. Where did that sarding piece of wood go?”

After another two bouts—Godric almost wins one of them by tripping and smacking Máel Coluim on his leg when Máel Coluim is still swinging his wooden practice sword through the air where Godric’s arms should have been—he declares their bouts ended. “Another of these, and I won’t be capable of moving at all,” Godric gasps out. “Thank you for the lesson.”

“Thank you for the opportunity to practice. I don’t have one often, not with student or man,” Máel Coluim admits.

“What of your brother?” Godric has noticed that Dúngal looks as if he desperately wants to challenge Godric with a real blade, but instead refuses to approach him at all.

“Oh, Dúngal noticed that you wear the royal emblem of Muireb on your right hand. He is convinced that you are a spy sent by our enemies, but if he were to kill you, it would be war between Muireb and Alba,” Máel Coluim replies.

Godric winces in pain when he tries to shrug. “I don’t think he is wrong about the latter. The royal family of Muireb thinks of me as family, as I do them.”

Máel Coluim raises an eyebrow. “I will be keeping that in mind.”

“Why? Had you plans to go to war with Muireb?” Godric asks, grinning.

“By the Almighty, no!” Máel Coluim exclaims, laughing. “Those of the north are used to dealing with the Norræn of Orkney whenever a fell wind blows from Gallaibh. They’re blooded in battle far too often for me to feel it worth the risk. Even my father would think twice before thinking to take an army against Ruaidrí mac Domnall.”

 

*         *         *         *

 

“When would you like to return to Alba?” Stígandr asks when they finally escape on the first day in September.

“When pigs develop the speech of men and the wings of eagles,” Godric mutters. He is still sore, all over, but at least he stopped losing every single sword bout. His skill with a bow, he discovered, has become terrible, and he blamed no man for laughing at his miserable attempts. It will be something to practice at improving, depending on where they plan to spend the winter.

The magicians did not laugh when Godric raised his wand. That was heartening, at first, but too many of their congratulatory words held the chill of fear.

A day and a half’s ride brings them to Aonghas, home of the Mormær Conchúr mac Máil Brigti. Much like the King of Alba, Conchúr strikes Godric as being a man of violence, but at least it is not violence fueled by spite and cruelty. His daughter seems composed of similar sharp edges, but Godric senses no cruelty. The Lady Finbil is married to the Mær of Fettercairn, a village to the northwest in A’Mhaoirne, and it will be their son who will be the next Mormær of Aonghas.

The hærfest weather of the north has arrived with bright, shining vengeance against the mist and rain, and their travel time is short. It takes little more than two hours to ride from Aonghas into Athall. The Mormær Duncan mac Donnchadh is married to a woman named Æthelreda.

Godric spends most of the visit trying to escape from her. Æthelreda is quite lovely in bearing and appearance, and is overly aware of this fact. She does not seem to know how to take no for an answer, even after being confounded with magic. Godric might be realizing he has a taste for bedding women that could see him easily finding trouble, but even he isn’t foolish enough to bed another man’s wife while staying as a guest in his home!

He’s certain that Stígandr extends their visit by an extra day just because the antics of Duncan’s wife amused him, and Stígandr does not deny it. Godric narrows his eyes and turns the magician’s robes the color of horse urine without need for a wand. Unfortunately for Godric’s patience, it takes all sarding day for Stígandr to notice.

They travel north over the southern heights, Am Monadh Ruadh. The hills and mountains slow their speed, but Godric doesn’t mind. He is fond of England, and misses Somerset with a fierce ache, but Am Monadh Ruadh is a place of absolute beauty, a vision of what it must be like to dwell in the Kingdom of God.

“You wouldn’t say the same come winter,” Stígandr says.

“I know very few who find anything to enjoy about winter,” Godric retorts, thinking of the great hearths left unlit in Griffon’s Door. The stone had been so cold, even if he’d shared his meager pallet with others to stay warm. The healers suspect that it was only their youth that kept them all from losing the ends of their fingers and toes to the frost.

“Children throw snow at one another while laughing.” Stígandr’s voice cuts into his thoughts. “They craft men out of shapes of ice for the joy of it. Think on the easy tracking of game when the untouched snow reveals their footprints. Fog tumbles from our lips into the air, as if everyone suddenly gained the same sort of magic. Walking through a forest as the snow falls, listening to a silence so intense as if the very trees are holding their breath.”

Godric thinks on that winter silence, holding his mother’s hand. They’re walking to the Door after she stopped hearing Alfrid’s voice calling from within the hill. Not even birdsong fills the air as the snow drifts down in gentle flakes.

“Godric?”

He spurs his horse to catch up with Stígandr, who has almost climbed the next hill. “Yes, sorry. My mind wandered.”

“Fortunately for us both, it returned,” Stígandr says in a mild voice. Godric thinks he detects a hint of concern in his teacher’s face, but doesn’t understand why.

They arrive in Invernochty, a settlement growing along the River Deathan and the Waters of Nochty. This is the seat of Màrr, and the Mormær Éímhín mac Cináeda welcomes them as if they’re of his own kin. Godric greets him warmly while thinking that the whole of the north uses the name Cináed far too often, and now he knows over one hundred men with that as the name of themselves or their father. Of course, they probably think the same regarding the English fondness for naming sons Edgar and Edward.

Éímhín already has a son Godric’s age named Domnal, the first time in weeks Godric has felt that he is among the company of an equal. By ranking they are not, but aside from Godric’s education in magic, they are much alike in terms of skill with blade, bow, and their learning. Éímhín boasts of his eldest son often, having already proclaimed that Domnal will be the next Mormær of Màrr.

There is an old track leading from Invernochty directly to the port town of Obar Dheathain. With two days of hard riding, they arrive on the eve of the nineteenth of September. It has not been a difficult season of travel, but Godric thinks he might have started it still too weary from the previous three years. He feels a tired ache in his bones as he lies in a good bed in an inn that night. He sleeps like a stone and awakens late in the morning, nearly missing breakfast.

“You should wander while we’re here this day, for we will be leaving tomorrow,” Stígandr says as he drinks his usual morning horror of mint-steeped honey and barley. “A port is a fine place to visit if you plan to think of others upon the Solstice or Christmastide.”

“A port. Christmastide.” Godric sips on a spiced, sweetened cider that tastes as if someone is experimenting with pear rather than apple. He isn’t used to encountering pears north of Brittany, but it’s an interesting change from barley drinks, mead, cider, milk, and water. “That is a fine idea. Thank you for reminding me of it.”

Godric wanders Obar Dheathain throughout the rest of the morning, selecting a few things only when certainty strikes him. His dinner is purchased from vendors selling squab roasted on a stick. He suspects Sedemai would laugh and say he deserves what he gets the next time he asks a squab to take a message for him.

He can’t think of what to gift her when everything seems too personal, but she has aided him many times when it was not necessary. He finally settles on a roll of thick, magically woven silk. To the absolute horror of the shop keep, Godric uses his wand to transfigure the cloth to the proper sort of vibrant violet that the other kingdoms of Europe believe is meant only for royalty.

Godric grins at the poor man. “It’s meant as a gift for those of Wessex blood. It will cause no offence.”

“Uh—of course.” The shop keep swallows and then seems to find their courage. “The color will not return to what it was?” Godric shakes his head. “Then…if you were to turn a bolt of my finest silk to that same true Tyrian purple, I would then give you the choice of any single bolt of cloth in my shop in trade. Is that agreeable?”

That might solve another of his problems in regards to gifting things to others. “It is. Bring me whatever it is you wish to be a proper royal violet, though I do hope you tell your king how much trial and expense you went to in order to acquire it, not to mention the danger involved.”

They ride north to Búchan the next day, though with each of Godric’s purchases made small, the horse doesn’t notice any unwanted added weight. He oversleeps for a second morning, which is irritating and confusing, as he usually does not dare. He rushes his farewells to those whose names he’s learned in the inn during their stay, collects his horse from the stable, and finds Stígandr waiting in at the roadside by the inn, looking to be in a foul mood.

“We’re traveling on horses, you know,” Godric reminds him as they follow the road north out of the village. “If you were in such a hurry to depart, it would have been no difficulty for me to follow you.”

Stígandr scowls at him. “One does not leave one’s apprentice behind, even if one’s apprentice is a fool driven by too much sentiment.”

“Oh, I’m certain it often looks that way, and in truth, it’s honest sentiment,” Godric says, fighting a smile. “But there are many who remember the man who took the time to learn their names when it might be easily forgotten.”

Stígandr turns his head so he can glare at Godric with his one good eye. “You are kind enough that it is easy for me to forget that kindness can hide sly thoughts and great ambition.”

“That’s a stupid thing to forget.” Godric grins when the older man huffs and faces forward again, muttering under his breath. He still doesn’t know what to make of Stígandr most of the time, but he enjoys the Norse magician’s company.

Godric pats his horse’s neck. He’s taken to calling her Ehwaz because her name makes Stígandr twitch. “And you would not be nearly so willing to trot along these rocky hills if I were not kind,” he says to her. “Perhaps this would be a better world if more were willing to remember the strength of kindness.”

“I wouldn’t trust that sort of world,” Stígandr says without turning in his saddle. “Men are suspicious, deceitful, flawed creatures by their very nature. If they were all suddenly full of kindness, I would not know how to search for the trap.”

Godric shrugs. “That doesn’t mean that we should not make the attempt. The Maker did so.”

“Oh, yes,” Stígandr mutters. “And look where that got the man, hmm? Nailed to a piece of wood and left out on a hill to enjoy the afternoon sunshine.”

Godric smiles. “The Almighty knew what he was about when such was done.”

Stígandr snorts in dismissal. “If you get yourself killed of a noble cause before this apprenticeship is done, I say it was not of my doing. You were already touched in the head.”

Godric feels his smile fade. “It’s much too late for that, Stígandr. I’ve already a noble quest to complete, but fortunately for you, it does not begin until our time together has ended.”

Stígandr turns to peer at Godric from over his shoulder again. “That is not a noble cause. That is doing what is right and just.”

“Are they not both the very same?” Godric asks quietly.

His teacher turns around to face forward again without answering, but Godric still suspects he is pleased with Godric’s answer. Perhaps he didn’t expect Godric to already know that a bard’s tales of valor are often nonsense wrapped in pretty songs. Godric’s father had at least three full ballads written in regards to his victories in battle, and Leofric would have been the first to laugh and call it all complete nonsense.

Godric misses his father, just as he confessed in the church on his fifteenth birthday. It just seems that the sense of knowing Leofric is gone is all he can manage, his grief even more distant than it insisted upon being after Alfrid’s death.

The Mormær of Búchan greets them that night as if they’re expected, which makes Godric wonder as to how Stígandr has been able to alert so many different kingdoms as to their arrival. He has no bird to send messages, nor has Godric seen hint of a Patronus. Fáelán and his wife, Aodha, have many, many, _many_ children, making him wonder if they’ve had a dozen of their own and claimed the rest of the village, also. Godric is again grateful that he never forgets a name once spoken, else he would have no idea who he was speaking to at any given moment.

Fáelán and Aodha are also the only magicians among the rulers Godric has encountered so far. While they are not Door Guardians, there is a Door to the south, near Obar Dheathain.

“Guardians?” Aodha seems to consider it. “As far as my family’s memory goes, that particular place has never relied on the guardianship of men.”

“Some of them are like that,” Fáelán says. “Your Door in the South, it is long used to people. I would wager that the settlement around it is very old. The Picts of Ke would never live near a Door. I’m not certain if the old Britons were brave or foolhardy to be willing to dwell so close to an active Door, but truly, at times it seems that to go south on this isle is to enter a truly foreign land.”

“Does it seem that way to you, Lord Godric?” Aodha’s eldest, Caomh asks him.

“The way people think upon their neighbors and overlords is different where I am from than it is for you here, though note I’m not calling it bad,” Godric answers. “The lands that were once Dál Riada, the Kingdom of Cumbria, and the Kingdom of Northumbria—that is where it changes, and it’s such a subtle change you don’t notice it at first.”

“What does that mean?” tiny Máeda asks.

“It’s a very polite way of saying that you’re all terrible gossips,” Godric says. Stígandr rolls his eyes and sighs in disapproval, but Aodha and Fáelán laugh.

They are in Búchan for the Equinox and the Meán Fómhair Feast for the end of the hærfest. There is enough food to fill every stomach in Eilean thrice over, though Godric forgoes attempting anything beyond the second, feeling he might otherwise be ill. He’s used to food again, but not _that_ much of a meal.

The village spends the whole of the twenty-third recovering from the feast day. It’s almost too quiet after being so raucous the day before, and Godric is glad to leave that odd silence behind when they depart the next morning.

“It’s a long journey to Inbhir Nis from here, even staying near to the coast,” Stígandr tells Godric after they’ve ridden for at least an hour. “Six days, if the weather continues to favor us.”

“No longer than the journey over the Am Monadh Ruadh, then,” Godric says.

“But unlike those mountains, there is little to serve as a distraction,” Stígandr replies, and nudges his horse until he is trotting on ahead.

Godric watches him after making certain Ehwaz is keeping pace with Stígandr’s mount. “Why would I require a distraction?” he wonders, but Ehwaz is not one for conversation. Perhaps he should find a hound, a cat, or a bird. None of those three animals are great for conversing, either, but even the ones raised by non-magical hands look at a man as if they wish to speak to their companion.

He catches up to Stígandr. “It occurs to me that except for the Jarl of Orkney and Caithness, I’ve met every single royal family in Briton. I have yet to kneel before Æthelred of Wessex and acknowledge him as my king, but I’ve met him many times before now.”

“Every royal family? Imagine that,” Stígandr says in a mild voice.

“You’ve been introducing me to every potential ally I could call upon on this island, were they to be necessary—though I do not recall being introduced to those of Galloway.”

Stígandr smiles. “Galloway needs no king, but if you asked for their aid and the need was true, they would grant it to you. You treated well with them, and they appreciated that.”

Godric nods. “I doubt the King of Alba would be so willing to bestir himself.”

“No,” Stígandr agrees. “But Alba has more men to its lands than Cináed mac Maíl Coluim.”

By the second day, they break through the forest north of the village and travel along the coat. It isn’t long before Godric understands what Stígandr meant. He spies the occasional fishing boat braving the waters, and many more boats up on racks well above the tideline next to huts that are not occupied this late in the season. There are rocks, grass, and marshy ground, bogs that help provide an abundance of peat for their fires…and not much else at all. There are no fine views to distract him from his thoughts.

There is nothing to do but ride during the day. Their pace is slow as they allow the horses pick their footing over uneven ground so they do not injure themselves. In the evening, the ritual of preparing camp, finding wild game for supper to accompany the bread given to them in Búchan, and settling in before the fire repeats itself. Their conversations are swift, short, or lacking entirely. Godric feels out-of-sorts, uncomfortable in his own skin, and aggravated by turns.

He still can’t see the Firth of Muireb when he finally can’t endure the unchanging quiet any longer. “I feel as if there is something you want me to do or say.”

“No, there is something that you _need_ to do or say,” Stígandr counters without slowing his horse. “It is something delayed, buried too long, and will poison your spirit if let be.”

Godric clenches his jaw in frustration. “I don’t understand!”

Stígandr turns his horse, eyes Godric for a moment, and then dismounts. “Come. Here. Down here.”

Godric does so, making certain to leave Ehwaz’s reins tied around a great stone so that she can graze but not wander. He follows Stígandr down to the sea. The rocks on either side give way, revealing a narrow, pebbled shoreline. The tide is going out, leaving an exposed stretch of brown sand glistening in the sun.

“You are currently like the tide of the sea,” Stígandr says, and Godric gives him a startled look. “You do what you are meant to, because you must, because that is what you know of how things are. The tide comes in; the tide recedes. It does so every day, without fail. You wake up, you learn of magic and swordplay, and you sleep.”

“And what am I meant to be doing, if not that?” Godric asks, utterly confounded.

Stígandr seems to steady himself before he pins Godric with his remaining blue eye. “How did Leofric Grypusdor die, Godric?”

“In—in battle,” Godric replies, resisting the urge to take a step back. “You know this.”

“I know this. You know this. I suspect there are many who know this, even if they’ve never once met yourself or your father.” Stígandr glances back at the sea before looking at Godric again. “You misunderstand me, Godric. _How did Leofric Grypusdor die_? You were there. You were present at his death. How?”

Godric shakes his head a little. “I—suppose Wystan did so. I can recall that he killed my grandmother.” He thinks he can, at least. It’s so distant, the memory, that sometimes he wonders, even now, if his mind crafted it just to have an explanation for her loss.

“Do more than that. Remember it exactly as it occurred,” Stígandr insists. “How, Godric? What felled your father?”

“I don’t know!”

Stígandr turns to rest both of his hands on Godric’s shoulders. It makes Godric realize that he is taller, that he has grown since they left Inbhir Nis in Maius. “Godric Grypusdor, Lord of Griffon’s Door and Eorl of Somerset—you remember every face and name of every single child of man we encounter. When you hear a tale, you know it in your heart, and repeat it to others with the same accuracy in which it was taught to you. You despise the learning of maths, but learn them easily because you do not forget the great algebra calculations when you see them demonstrated. You might have suffered many losses in your bouts with wand and sword during our journey, but you are never defeated in the same manner twice. You transfigure objects from one form into another with permanence because of that same inability to forget. It is perfection of the memory, Godric. You know everything in regards to the Battle of the Mark on eleventh Augustus in the year 974.

“Now: tell me how your father died.”

Godric’s head feels too light, his lungs full of lead, his bowels icy, and his limbs too heavy. “I—he—it—”

Suddenly he’s shouting. “It was a trap! It was a sarding trap from the first, but he wouldn’t see it!” He gasps for breath. “The needle. It’s always about the needle, the smallest thing you don’t sarding see. I saw it, I finally saw it, but by the time I could voice the words that would sway him, Father had gone to confront what he thought was the whole of Wystan’s men—but they weren’t! That was half his strength, and the rest was waiting behind the shimmer of magic to cut off their escape from the valley. Laguia and Erneis, part of the guard—we were meant to stay behind. I told them that we could _not_ let Wystan’s men kill the rest of those from Griffon’s Door.”

“You were a child of eleven, unblooded in battle,” Stígandr says gently.

“I didn’t care about my age,” Godric retorts. “I cared about my father, our friends! We attempted to come around at my uncle’s soldiers from the other side. By the time we got there, the battle was too spread for the tactic to be of much good, and they were—they were dueling.”

He closes his eyes. He can still see spells of many colors, fire, ice, and even the green of death. Wystan and Leofric dueled as if they were the only two combatants on the battlefield. Other soldiers and magicians fell to their spells, unheeded.

“Wystan won. The Killing Curse.” Godric swallows. “When Laguia noticed, she screamed her grief for her son’s death, but it was a mistake. Wystan used it to find her in the chaos, and he cast the spell again.

“Erneis rallied us, a circle surrounded by the enemy. There were not many of us remaining when Wystan asked if we would surrender and swear fealty to him.”

“And you would not,” Stígandr murmurs.

Godric screams the words at the water, and a wave of scarlet fire follows them: “WHY WOULD HE NOT LISTEN TO ME? WHY, GOD? I ALWAYS DID AS HE BID! WHY?”

Stígandr embraces Godric, who has somehow fallen to his knees on the wet sand. “Because men make mistakes, Godric. Because he sought vengeance. Because he sought to protect you. None know the true reason but Leofric or the gods.”

“IT ISN’T RIGHT!” Godric’s shriek rides on the wave of another gout of scarlet flame. “Everything we endured, everything that was done! None of it is right!”

“No. No, it is not.” Stígandr tightens his grip. “But you must remember that it is men who do evil, not the world. You must remember to _live_ in this world.”

Godric slumps in place. “I still don’t understand.”

Stígandr chuckles, but it is kindness Godric hears, not mockery. “Your great-grandmother, Edda, told me that you were too quiet. It was not merely the quiet of a man who had seen too much of the worst men are capable of, but a man who had yet to grieve for those lost to cruelty. I have watched you the whole of this summer. Your grief has been too shallow, your anger too thin. You are here, and yet you have not been here. Do you understand?”

His head aches abominably. “I feel utterly wretched.”

“Good.” Stígandr surprises Godric by leaning close so that their heads rest together. It’s a soothing gesture. “Now that I have your full attention, we can proceed.”

“Proceed with what?”

Stígandr sits back and pats Godric’s arm. “I am an educated warrior, Godric Grypusdor. After the Christmastide you celebrate with others in Inbhir Nis, I shall teach you stories. I shall teach you of weapons. I shall lift my wand and we will duel until neither of us wishes to rise, and then we will rise anyway to do so again. I shall do my very best to make you a man who can take his countrymen to war and not become a burdened, embittered soul afterwards.”

“Oh.” Godric swallows against the rawness in his throat. He feels something curling up from the depths of his gut.

Anger. Rage. All of the hatred, the scorn, and the seething outrage that Godric put aside when dealing with everything Wystan did to Griffon’s Door. The feelings he could not have without risking his survival, or the survival of others.

“I hate him.” Godric sounds pathetic. “Is that bad of me?”

“Hatred is not a failing,” Stígandr responds at once. “What you do with that hatred can be terrible, or it can be wonderful. Which do you choose?”

Godric thinks on the death of Oriel’s father, who refused to swear fealty to Wystan when they were marched back to the keep of Griffon’s Door. He thinks of children forced to work and not fed proper, of their parents’ fears. They had all been chased by fear and loss, abandoned to fend but for the times when they learned to stand together.

“I’ve seen enough terror,” Godric whispers. “Show me the wonder in our world, Stígandr.” 


	12. Seiðkona

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I am training you to be a Magical Master of War, Godric Grypusdor."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last Godric chapter for a bit until the little shit gets his shit together and tells me more about the next bit. :-)
> 
> Hail to cheer-readers: @norcumi, @jabberwockypie, @sanerontheinside, & @mrsstanley (who is still sick)

“Mother, what does Griffon’s Door look like?”

“You’ve seen the keep of Griffon’s Door, daughter,” Osthryth says with needles clamped between her lips. Sedemai has no idea how her mother can embroider successfully while using so many needles and differing colors at a time without stabbing herself, but the Lady Osthryth has yet to bleed on any of her creations.

“I don’t mean the keep. I mean the Door itself.”

Osthryth’s brow furrows before she slowly removes each needle from her lips, placing them in a careful roll along the edge of her linen tapestry before using magic to stick them in place. If she does not, the cat will have them all the moment their backs are turned. “Why is it you wish to see the true heart of Griffon’s Door?” Then she raises an eyebrow, the truth probably easy to discern by the smile on Sedemai’s face. “Dream-walking again?”

“I don’t think he can help it, else he would either find more polite times of day to visit in such a fashion,” Sedemai replies, grinning outright. “Perhaps it would not be so random, either.”

“His great-grandmother, the Magician Edda, learned from those in the North. She might be able to help him with that aspect of his magic when they are in each other’s company again,” Osthryth says musingly. “Why, daughter?”

“Godric asked for a token to remind him of his friend in the south.” Sedemai regards her mother with innocent blinking.

“A token,” Osthryth repeats.

“Before you consider wrath…” Sedemai’s grin fades. “I don’t think he’s yet to think of me as anything more than a good-spirited child. He referenced a token granted to him in friendship by Prince Findláech, and expects nothing more than that.”

“Ah.” Osthryth regards her daughter. “But you would like it to be more than that.”

Sedemai ducks her head. “Just because you and Father did not wish me to dwell on it does not mean I will forget when I stare into another’s eyes and find the parts of myself I feel I am lacking.”

Osthryth rises and walks over. She places her fingers beneath her daughter’s chin to raise Sedemai’s head. “Dearest, you were too young at that time, and then…” Osthryth sighs. “Not only did illness fell the plans that were being considered, but so did Wystan Ánġenemne.”

“I didn’t know you’d considered it!” Sedemai blurts out in surprise.

“It was a good match to make even if magic was not already intent on having its way,” Osthryth responds dryly. “It is not safe to take you to see the Door of Griffon. I have been there, though it was many years ago, when myself, your father, Eorl Leofric, and the Countess Godeva were young. None of us yet had children, though Godeva was already carrying the child she would name Leffeda, after Leofric’s dead sister.” She seems to shake herself free of memory and smiles at Sedemai. “The oak tree, I think. What would you like your token to be made from?”

Sedemai does not hesitate. “Gold, goblin-minted and meant to burn the hand of any who tries to steal the token. I’ve heard the others say that men who use swords should not wear too many rings, even those goblin-made, for fear it will interfere with their grip on the hilt.” She has also heard more than her fair share of ribald jokes about the very same. “Perhaps something to hang at the neck or the wrist?”

“Perhaps, yes.” Osthryth smiles at Sedemai. “Made in one of the colors of our House rather than his, daughter?”

“The choice of color can come to mean what he decides.” Sedemai grins again. “He will figure out what it means in his own time.” She hesitates. “And I think it very important that he do so, that I not mention it. I think…that he worries. That it would be yet one more concern to burden his heart. I don’t wish to do that to anyone, let alone a man who has long been my friend.”

Osthryth embraces her. “You will be a wise Guardian to guard the Door of Griffon.”

Sedemai releases her mother in confusion. “But who will then look after the Fosse Door?”

Her mother pats her belly. “Your brother, of course. Though that will not be for some time yet.”

Sedemai blinks a few times before squealing like a silly child and throwing herself back into her mother’s arms.

 

*         *         *         *

 

_From the Guardian of the South-Western Door on the Roman Fosse Way_

_To the Lady Sedemai Osanna of Gifle, House of Wessex and House of the Forked River in the realm of the Kingdom of England under the Reign of His Highness, Æthelred II of England, House of Wessex_

_30 th October in the Year of Our Lord 978_

_It is cold here. I fear I will ever be a southern man of this isle. I often follow my teacher into the mountains and think him insane._

_You have asked of what I have learned, so perhaps I should discuss all of it, beginning with_ _Síðian, of course. I find that if I am traveling directly to a Door, the distance does not matter, though in all other things, it is tiring if I attempt to go too far. I am more educated in plants than I ever wished to be, and can brew healing draughts that will not kill a man. I’m not certain they’ll yet help a man to live, but that is why it is better to befriend Healers._

_I have no difficulty with charms at all, but I do not wish to philosophize about them, so a master in that type of magic may ever be beyond my reach._

_My transfiguration is improving. I more often now transfigure one object into the result I desire, not some random thing that I was not thinking on at all. However, these transfigurations never stop being permanent. Once I have changed a thing, the magic never goes away._

_I think it is because I walked through a Door. My teacher does not think this a bad thing, these changes in me that linger, but I still find them odd. It was convenient, though, in the matter of acquiring my gift to you and your mother for Christmastide. Your father cannot use it, for all he is wedded to Wessex blood, so I found something more suited to him. I hope when the gifts arrive for the holy days, they are fondly accepted._

_Sarding maths. I know them well enough. Let me be on the matter unless you wish me to aim a catapulta!_

_No, there is no Arithmancy waiting in my future. I’ve not the patience for it._

_I do not Divine, though like all magicians, a Mastery of Mind Magic grants me moments of Sight. I am not yet certain what use my insights will be, but I will not ignore them._

_Yes, I did attain my first mastery! I don’t yet know what any others will be, but at last, I learned all that I needed of the mind magics._

_It is stories that I love. History, the myths and legends of our world, even the completely fictional tales that bards will sing when nothing else will suit. I remember all that I’ve ever heard spoken, and when dwelling in my granted home, I visit the library to read more. Even paintings have stories to tell, whether they are magical or not. I will never paint my own, as I have as much artistry in my hands as I do Divining talents, but I appreciate the works of canvas, those upon walls, and the intimate portraits painted within jewelry._

_Mother would be so pleased that I finally gained a fondness for the written word. I hope that somewhere she smiles at the idea of her son hiding himself away among the bound tomes and scrolls._

_The stars are so bright here in these high lands. There are no words I could write to describe them to you, how they shine and paint the night with colors to reveal the sky not to be black at all._

_One of mywel-_ _dóende wishes me to learn an instrument, as my education in that is lacking. I am trying my hand at the lyre, since it emits sounds that do not make me loathe it. It’s sure to otherwise be a disaster. I do not see the weaving of magical spells with enchanted songs in my future._

_I’ve now seen most of Briton, both in my father’s company and in the company of my teacher. I have met the rulers of every land but that of the Eorldom of Orkney and Caithness. I think I have the beginnings of informal alliances with most of them._

_Not Alba. I don’t think Alba understands what that means, though his younger son is good company._

_Diplomacy is terrible, and yet I seem to have a gift for it. I have no idea how that could be, but so far it means we are not dead._

_After spending time with Great-grandmother, I have no further understanding of this dream-walking ability. I find it helps to seek my rest with a calmed heart, but that is not always easy to achieve. Some nights even sleep is hard to find, and I will sit up late by the fire, listening to my teacher tell stories of strange things he has seen in his long life._

_My teacher takes me to Caithness in two days, where we will remain until the Winter Solstice. That is certain to be interesting._

_May You Be Well during the Winternacht._

_I will think of you tomorrow when the fires are lit for Samhain._

 

*         *         *         *

 

It feels as if the very air changes when they cross the landmarks that denote the border between what Ruaidrí mac Domnall rules for Muireb and Jarl-held Caithness. Godric doesn’t realize the extent to which he is holding his breath until they ride into the village of Thorsá and Stígandr is greeted as a welcome guest.

The jarl is not Hlodvir, as Ruaidrí had thought years ago, but Arnfinn Thorfinnsson, Jarl of Norðreyjar and Katanes, eldest son of the famous skull-splitter Thorfinn Einarrsson.

Godric has a few moments to look around, and appreciates the way the Norse dig their houses down so part of them resides in the soil that never freezes, helping to keep them warm. He does not appreciate that he is challenged to a minor duel (not hólmganga) the moment he dismounts his horse.

Thank the Almighty he learns quickly. Stígandr did not have much trouble in teaching Godric the whole of the Norrænt Tal, and thus he understands at once what is expected of him. He also knows that to show weakness or to lose is to be seen as unimportant, lesser than other men, and an easy target for further duels.

Godric swings his spatha hard enough to knock the spear from Ingwulf’s hands and smiles at the taller man while Ingwulf clutches at his right hand in pained surprise. “You could pick it up and we could have another go, if you like.”

“Not when you’re hitting that hard, I won’t,” Ingwulf retorts, but he grins wide and embraces Godric so fiercely that Godric’s lungs feel cramped. “It is good to see spine and strength from those in the south!”

“It is indeed good to see strength from a ruler in the south,” Jarl Arnfinn says when they finally get to sit at the table for the meal. “What is a southern man hoping to gain from those of us in the north?”

Godric resists the urge to sigh. He missed dinner due to the greetings between Stígandr and all who know him, and would like to eat before it goes on midnight. “As the Eorl of Somerset, I am expected to greet every leader on this isle—not to fight, but to recognize them, just as they would recognize me. Unless Stígandr has something he is plotting without telling me, then that is the only reason I am here.”

Arnfinn nods. “You are fifteen, and from what I have been told, properly magically apprenticed in the English way, but you are not yet the confirmed Eorl of Somerset in England.”

“No, I’m not,” Godric agrees, smiling as he thinks on Wystan’s fate. “But I will be.”

There is a pleased rumble at his words, and Arnfinn seems to approve, as well. “When, then? When do I greet you as an equal in truth?”

Godric decides not to mention that an English eorl is not quite the same as a Noregi jarl. The power an eorl wields is close enough for it not to matter, and they are both still beholden to a king. “My uncle Wystan Grypusdor is acting as Steward of my family’s keep. He will have one chance to turn the lands of Griffon’s Door and control of the Eorldom of Somerset over to me on my eighteenth birthday. If he does not step aside and grant me my right of inheritance, then I will take it from him.”

The Norræn around him _definitely_ approve of that plan. Arnfinn nods and raises a drinking horn to Godric. “If the fool does not turn over what is yours, we may be able to bargain on a trade for fighting men in order to help with your rightful claiming.”

Godric nods and raises his gifted drinking horn in turn. “If I come to need an army at my back, I know the men you would spare me would be great warriors.” Fortunately, that seems to settle the matter, and everyone is allowed to eat.

He rather likes the drinking horns the Norræn use here. He sees a few cups or goblets, but the horns dominate. Given the metals used to build their holding stands, the artistry of them, and the jewels, Godric suspects the horns are meant to denote some sort of ranking. Not leadership, not when the Jarl Arnfinn’s drinking horn is not as fine as others. It’s for skill in battle, perhaps, or specific and honored victories. Even the women have decorated drinking horns, though those who hold them have dressed for dinner rather than battle. Many women, whether they hold a horn or not, have knives or swords hanging from their belts. Edda did not need to warn him that any Norse woman with a sword is an accomplished warrior; he can see it in the way they move, in the shine of their brilliant eyes.

He also wonders about Stígandr not being named as his magical teacher. He is, fortunately, not foolish enough to voice such questions in the jarl’s Þinghöll.

As honored guests, they are granted the use of a building that is called hús löggjafans. When there are trials within the community, Godric is told, this is where they are held. Otherwise it is a good, sturdy place to dwell.

“We’re to reside in their judgement hall. I feel ever so much better,” Godric mutters, and then turns to Stígandr. “You owe me an explanation.”

 “The others do not know I am seiðmaðr,” Stígandr confides in a low voice. “Jarl Arnfinn does, for I have known him since his youth. He lost the hólmganga when he challenged me, and because of this, he respects me, but we tell no others. It is simpler that way. You are English and therefore a barbarian in their eyes, so you are not ill-treated for your magic.”

Godric scowls. “Thank you for the compliment.”

Stígandr looks as if he is enjoying Godric’s ire. “Your known status as a magician of the south will be gossiped of, and you will likely be challenged again. Carry your wand in its proper place, but bear your sword proudly, and you will deal with fewer challenges. Or you could do the opposite and fight many duels. Your swordsmanship needs improvement.”

Godric can’t argue with that; it does need improvement. He was fortunate today in that his challenger was also a youth, if a taller one. A seasoned warrior will be another matter.

“It might be wise of you to ask the Jarl Arnfinn if there are any warriors in the village willing to teach you for the short time we are here,” Stígandr says. “If it is known that you are learning to be a better warrior, it will bring about fewer challenges.”

“All right.” Godric is just glad he doesn’t have to hide his wand, because he certainly cannot help revealing his magic. Sometimes animals like him when they shun others. Rocks will change their shape, color, or nature if he sits among them too long while lost in his thoughts. Plants will scorn the sun to lean in his direction. His sword, now that he has worn it unceasingly for nearly two seasons, refuses to cut his skin even if he slides his hand along the sharp edge. Edda and Stígandr both say that it is the nature of his magic as a Door Guardian that causes these things. Godric knows they are not lying, but that is not the whole of it. He doesn’t blame them for not explaining further, not when they remain silent out of concern.

The explanation is not needed, anyway. When Godric walked through Griffon’s Door and spoke with the voices within, when he came out last when he should have emerged first in Inbhir Nis—it changed something within him. Godric doesn’t think it a bad change, but there is no doubt that he is now a bit more unusual than the average magician.

He is often distracted by trying to keep track of all of Arnfinn’s extended family. Arnfinn has four younger brothers, two younger sisters, and a smattering of half-siblings from Arnfinn’s father’s habit of keeping company with women who are not his wife. None seem to mind that Thorfinn Einarsson fathered children with women who were not the Princess Geirrlöð ingen Donnchaidh. Godric assumes that none minded Thorfinn’s practice of what others in England would call æwbryce.

Arnfinn has a wife named Ragnhiddur who, despite their long marriage, has given him no children. She also seems to spend a great deal of time with younger men, charming them with her beauty. Godric has witnessed Arnfinn flirt similarly with beautiful young women, but the man has no by-blows, so Godric assumes it must be some infirmity on Arnfinn’s part that leaves them childless.

As if to make up for it, unwed Skuli, Ljot, and Håvard have sired sons and daughters that bear their names. Hlodvir and his married sisters Vígdís and Sigrný have children with their wedded spouses, and seem to be competing as to who can have the most. Hlodvir has a son and three daughters, while his sisters have several sons and daughters among them.

Godric thinks Hlodvir a good man when they meet. Like Arnfinn, he strikes Godric as having the sort of qualities that would make him a good ruler, not merely a good warrior. Stígandr  says that Ljot has the potential to be like his eldest and youngest brother, though for now Ljot thinks far more of drinking and raiding than of ruling.

Hlodvir’s wife is terrifying. She is the Princess Eithne ingen Diarmait Mac Cearbhall of the great House Dál Birn in Éireann, and long ago earned the nickname Galdramaður. Not vǫlva, seiðkona, or spákona, but _S_ _orceress_. Eithne radiates power that feels as if it was never meant to belong to man. She is always civil, always polite, but Godric watches his words around her. She seems the type to bargain as the Fae do, and he’s done quite enough of that in this life already.

He is finally introduced to Sigurd, eldest child and only son of Hlodvir Thorfinnsson. Sigurd is eighteen years of age and a blooded warrior several times over already. He is tall and sturdy, ruddy-cheeked from sea travel, with braided blond hair so vibrant it seems to glow without any magic needed.

“So, you are the Englishman who dares to hold a wand,” is Sigurd’s manner of greeting.

Godric understands many things of Sigurd Hlodvirsson at once. This is a man who listens to power and strength only. It might one day make him a good jarl for leading men in a land known for constant war, but it will not make him a joyful companion. “A magician, yes,” Godric answers politely. “I am also Jarl of Somerset, a great portion of southwestern land in the Kingdom of England.”

“Another is Jarl to Somerset,” Sigurd retorts, frowning. “His name is Jarl Martin.”

“He is the non-magical Jarl. I am the recognized _magical_ Jarl,” Godric explains, biting back a smile that would cause Sigurd to take offence. “We are of equal rank when we stand before our king, for we contend with different dangers that might threaten our kingdom.”

“You are a warrior?” Sigurd asks, his eyes alighting with the idea of challenge.

“I am…learning,” Godric says cautiously. One of the men close to Arnfinn has been teaching him new ways to ply a sword, and the beginnings of learning to wage war with a spear beyond simply stabbing someone with it.

“Blooded?” Sigurd pushes.

Godric thinks on it before nodding. The memory is still not as clear as he would like, but it is _his_ sword he holds in that memory from eleventh Augustus 974, and it is red with another’s blood. “At age eleven. In the same battle that killed my father.”

Some of Sigurd’s delight at the idea of fighting fades away, and Godric is grateful. “The former Jarl of Somerset—he fought well?”

“Always. He always fought well,” Godric whispers, wondering that he suddenly feels so wretched. Grief finds him at the oddest times. He clears his throat. “My father was betrayed by his younger brother, who bested him in battle. I would hold less hatred in my heart for my uncle had he fought my father properly. He did not announce himself or his intentions before drawing my father into a trap meant only to be a slaughter for those loyal to my family.” In the south, the trap of battle would mean nothing, but here in the Norðreyjar, it is a terrible offence that goes against how one is supposed to challenge one’s kin.

“My teachers like to say that battles are harsh, and nothing is fair when blood is being spilt,” Sigurd says. “But I have always been told that if I am to challenge my kin, I will look them in the eyes and speak the ritual words. To do otherwise is to dishonor them as well as myself.” He hesitates. “You are truly a magician of the south? One who is seiðmaðr?”

Godric shakes his head. “We do not call ourselves seiðmaðr, seiðkona, spákona, or vǫlva . In England, and in many countries in the south, we are simply magicians.”

Sigurd does not look reassured. “My sister is seiðkona, what you call magician. She is the eldest daughter of a great jarl, and should be readying herself for a good marriage to strengthen my father’s holdings. Instead, she wishes to be vǫlva. I feel bad things will come of my father letting her be so free with the learnings of magic.”

“Isn’t a vǫlva honored in the lands of any jarl, and is so revered that a Court of her own follows her on her travels?” Godric asks, confused by Sigurd’s opinion of his sister. It doesn’t match at all what he’s heard anyone say about one who is a recognized vǫlva.

“It means she will be more powerful than the Jarl of Norðreyjar and Caithness!” Sigurd retorts, and stomps off. Godric watches him depart, perplexed. He decides that Hlodvir’s son is still young enough that his blood runs too hot, seeing threats where none exist. A vǫlva’s Court might be powerful, but they don’t seek land to rule over. They’re quite content at leaving that task to the jarls.

Godric seeks out Stígandr afterwards, who is sitting alone before the hearth in their stone-built longhouse. “When I was young, the Mormær of Muireb told me that it was Hlodvir that held the Eorldom of Orkney and Caithness, but we come here and find that it is Arnfinn. Did Arnfinn challenge Hlodvir and succeed?”

Stígandr shakes his head. “Hlodvir has never been Jarl of Norðreyjar and Katanes, though once, we all thought it to be so. Jarl Thorfinn fell into the sleep of death without naming an Heir, leaving five sons and two married daughters by his wife, along with his various by-blows, all of them wondering who would rule. Many assumed it _would_ be Hlodvir. He holds a great deal of land, and defends it and his people with fierce pride. He is held in high esteem by those who dwell in the north.

“For nearly a year, we all believed Hlodvir to be Jarl. It was a surprise to find that the brothers had held a þing and agreed without bloodshed that eldest brother Arnfinn should be Jarl of Norðreyjar and Katanes.” Stígandr prods at the fire in the hearth with a long rod of iron. “Hlodvir may yet become jarl. There is conflict coming for these lands, though I do not yet know when that conflict will arise.”

“Why does Sigurd fear magic?” Godric asks bluntly. “He did not say so in that manner,” he adds when Stígandr looks at him expectantly. “But he fears his sister Helga, who wishes to be a vǫlva. I don’t understand why, not when Sigurd’s mother is…”

“Intimidating,” Stígandr supplies when Godric can choose no word on his own. “Galdramaður Eithne is quite powerful. Sigurd fears her, as well, though never has an unkind word passed her lips in regards to any of her children. Some of us have strange fears even when surrounded by proof that their fears have no weight of truth to them, Godric. Sigurd is not the only man you will meet in your life who finds fear where there is only succor.”

Godric is practicing the transfiguration that Stígandr has set him to do when a girl with golden hair and blue eyes, perhaps ten years of age, wanders close. She holds a yew staff that looks as if it was made for a shorter child. Her chains, gilded dagger, and jewelry mark her as the daughter to a wealthy family. “Hello,” she says in greeting, smiling. “I have heard that you are the skrælingi from the south who performs magic.”

“I would be the barbarian, yes. Hello,” Godric replies. Many of the Norse women are magical, but this child radiates strength in a way that reminds him of Edda. He flicks his wand at the stone and nudges it with magic, still trying to concentrate on what he wishes for it to be.

“What is it you are doing?” the girl asks, climbing up on a boulder to gain a better view.

“Practicing. I do odd things when it comes to changing one object into another.”

“Can I watch?” she asks, grinning. “I’ve never seen a man perform magic before!” There is no malice in the expression, just eager interest.

Godric considers it before nodding. If anyone witnesses the magic, he may have to fight another duel, but such has become so commonplace in the village that he has stopped worrying about it. “Certainly.” A moment later he is cursing under his breath when the rock he is attempting to turn into a goblet refuses to become a vessel, and instead becomes an emerald. He hasn’t made that sort of mistake in weeks now.

The girl raises both eyebrows. “That is very good magic.”

Godric lowers his wand. “I will grant you that, but it was not meant to be a stone. It was meant to be a goblet.”

The girl hops off her boulder and picks up the raw emerald, turning it around in her hands. “That is a permanent change. It will not be anything but this unless someone attempts to change it again.” She purses her lips, as if in thought. “Can I keep it?”

Godric sighs. “I’ve no use for it. If it makes you happy, take it with you.”

“Thank you!” The girl promptly tucks the stone into the pouch hanging from her belt. Godric knows there is magical space within it when the stone falls for a much longer time than necessary before striking something else stored in the pouch.

“You know me for who I am. Which of these many fine Houses do you belong to?” Godric asks.

The girl gives him a curtsy that almost seems sarcastic. “I am the Seiðkona Helga, first-born daughter of Hlodvir Thorfinnsson, who is youngest of my grandfather’s sons.”

“Oh. You’re the one Sigurd fears, then,” Godric says, amused. “The one who wishes to become vǫlva.” Then his amusement turns to confusion. “But—I know the eldest daughter of Hlodvir Thorfinnsson to be only a year younger than Sigurd. You do not look to have seen seventeen summers.”

Helga nods, unconcerned by Godric’s bewilderment. “I have begun my training as a vǫlva within the Grove. Time passes differently within those trees if you are not prepared for it. A day could mean a month; a week could be a year. Mother and Father miss me while I am gone, but they have always supported my desire to know. Father often jokes that his eldest daughter has become his youngest, though my sisters still defer to me.”

“Sigurd was less than pleased when you stopped aging as he viewed proper, then?”

She rolls her eyes. “Sigurd has been frightened of me since my staff released its grip on its tree and landed on his head,” she says, and Godric laughs. “As if that was my decision. He should fear the tree, not me, as I’m certainly not the only vǫlva in the north. Besides, I am not as frightening as our mother.”

 _Vǫlva in the north_. Godric swallows and decides he’s going to ignore what feels like a portent. “My great-grandmother is vǫlva, also. Her name is Edda.”

Helga’s grin is wide and bright, revealing the beauty that is just starting to claim her features as childhood fades. “Your great-grandmother is the Vǫlva Edda? She is one of my teachers in the Grove!” Then her grin turns sly. “You did not ask questions of the Grove when I revealed why I am not the age my year of birth should make me, not like others. You’ve been there, haven’t you?”

“If you mean the Grove of Brae, I have been there twice—briefly,” Godric says. “I was ten years old. The elves who dwell within the trees gave me a gift, a boon that allowed me to save many lives years after it was granted. I did not stay within the trees long enough to lose time in this world, but did not doubt that it was a place of power.”

“It truly is,” Helga agrees with a smile of utter delight. Godric isn’t certain what she might be like as a warrior as she grows older, but it is obvious that Helga finds joy in magic, and none have spoiled that joy for her. It makes him glad to have met her, to see a magical child untainted by someone such as Wystan. “Do you magically duel yet?” she asks.

Godric is surprised by the question, but nods and smiles. “I learned how when I was your age, but I’ve not had opportunity to practice in a long time. Would you see me lose honor in front of all your kin?”

Helga snorts her opinion of that. “We can easily go someplace where we will not be noticed by others. We can bring your Wanderer to oversee our dueling and prevent serious troubles from befalling us.”

“You wish to bring Stígandr,” Godric repeats, raising an eyebrow.

Helga leans in close. “Edda entrusted me with the secret of his worth, Godric af Grypusdor, but there are none here who I would tell save yourself and your teacher. I will swear it upon my staff, if you like.”

“No need to swear on it. I can tell that you will not destroy Stígandr’s welcome in this village.” Godric smiles and tucks his wand into his sleeve. “I will fetch him, and then we will see how many times you defeat me with your staff.”

Helga grins. “Do you think so little of your own strength?”

“You are a student of my great-grandmother, who first learned of magic with Myrddin Wyllt. I know my strength, but I’m not a fool, either,” Godric replies dryly.

Godric decides he does not do too badly. He loses most bouts, but not all of them. It is obvious Helga is practiced and encouraged in her skills, and she is learning to be sly and crafty.

Stígandr witnesses Godric’s dismal performance before losing his temper. “For the sake of the gods, you young idiot, take up your sword in your left hand while wielding your wand in your right! What is it that you think I am training you for?”

Godric does as instructed before glaring at Stígandr. “I wouldn’t know, as you’ve never properly said!”

“Oh.” Stígandr looks surprised. “I haven’t? My apologies, then. I am training you to be a Magical Master of War, Godric Grypusdor.”

Godric lowers both sword and wand in shock, distantly aware that Helga is doing the same with her staff as they stare at Stígandr. “A Magical Master of War?” Godric repeats in a faint squeak.

 “Do you mean like the Mages of War?” Helga asks, sounding both excited and awed.

Stígandr shakes his head. “None on this isle have the right to name a War Mage of Briton save Myrddin Wyllt himself, and he has not been seen in long years. Not a Mage of War, young Helga. Godric is to be a Magical Master of it.”

“Why? Why that, and not merely Defence?” Godric asks, still stunned. “Or any number of other things?”

“Because that is where your skills lie,” Stígandr says, and then gentles his voice. “And because you will be needed.”

 

*         *         *         *

 

Sedemai takes up the letter from Godric again after both her father and mother have read it through—twice over, it seems, given how long it took. Some of it is interesting, like Godric’s description of the Norse celebration of Jul, which he writes is pronounced like their old word for the Christmastide, geóhol. She is utterly confounded by the Norse idea that magic belongs only to women, or that Godric is not considered an outcast in their village by virtue of being an English barbarian.

Gabell laughed long and loud when reading that part of the letter the first time until Sedemai hit him with a bench cushion and demanded her father explain himself. “Sometimes men will take an idea and go far with part of it, while leaving the other half behind until they’ve forgotten it entirely,” Gabell says. “In the old days, before Rome came to our isle, we did not think all types of magic should be taught to men, or that all types of magic should be taught to women. Some magics were reserved only for those who chose to be neither. It was believed that they would be _better_ at these magics. All believed this—Briton, Pict, and Gaeil, the Dane and the Norse of the east and the southeast, Gaul, and the tribes of those to the southwest.

“If Rome brought any bit of good to us, it was the idea that all magic can be taught to all men, no matter their sex.”

Sedemai lights up as understanding comes to her. “But the Romans did not go to Noregi.”

“No. The Norse knew of the Romans, but the Romans did not conquer those lands. Slowly, the Norse forgot that men had their own magic, and now they believe it to be blasphemy against magic itself for a man to take up wand or staff.”

The history is a pleasant distraction, but not for long. “I still do not understand what Godric means,” Sedemai says. “He writes that it may be prudent for the blood of Wessex to remind the Wessex throne that it has allies of grand standing—Dowager Queen Ælfthryth knows of us already.” _And dislikes us_ , Sedemai does not add. It would be repeating a known truth.

Gabell holds up the fine, Norse-crafted hunting knife that Godric sent him. “Well, unless he is hinting at another assassination, I doubt we will be doing so with this.”

Osthryth has finished removing the linen covering the roll of fabric that was sent as a gift to Sedemai and her mother. Then she sits back in surprise. “Ah. Yes. That would…that would definitely be mindful.”

Sedemai pulls away the linen and gasps. “Is it the right color? I only saw King Edgar wear his own but the one time!”

“That is because he soiled it in a brawl shortly afterwards,” Osthryth mutters, but she lifts the silk. It is a fine dark purple, a color Sedemai has read of often as being worn by the richest of rulers in Europe. “It is true Tyrian, daughter. This would be why our gifts arrived before the holy days. Young Lord Godric wishes us to go to Court dressed in reminder that you and I were recognized by His Highness Æthelred’s father as royal members of the blood.”

“Does—does he hope that we will try for a marriage contract with the king?” Sedemai asks, feeling her heart sink into her shoes.

Osthryth lets out a ladylike snort. “Dearest daughter, the Dowager Queen would sooner pluck out her own eyes than allow you to wed her precious son. No. This is meant to safeguard us—you, in particular.”

“How?” Sedemai asks, glad that it feels like her heart has resumed its proper place in her body.

“You’re of recognized Wessex blood,” her father reminds her. “No one can claim your hand in marriage unless the king approves of the match.”

“Wystan,” Sedemai whispers, chilled. “But if he were to approach the throne, why would they turn him away if he sought my hand?”

“I’m not certain yet.” Gabell picks up the second letter bearing their names, the one accompanying a third package. The package acts as if it holds folded cloth; a scarlet-sealed and folded paper bearing the names of the Dowager Queen and King Æthelred II is attached to the protective linen with a golden broach.

Her mother is still fingering the silk, which has the fine weave and sense of being magically crafted. “A veil only for myself, I should think,” Osthryth murmurs. “I am already wed, and do not need to shout my status before the Court when it is known already. Unless I could also convince you to—”

“No veils,” Sedemai says flatly.

Osthryth smiles. “No veils. A gown, then, and a cloak lined with gold. I wish none in Court to believe your hand available to any who ask.”

Gabell suddenly lets out a long whistle. When Sedemai looks up, he is staring down at the letter he holds, wide-eyed. “I keep forgetting how much that little shit is just like the Lord Leofric.”

They go to Court on Christmas Day, as usual, but it is not Corfe Castle they visit. Æthelred no longer wishes to dwell in the same castle that hosted his brother’s murder, and has moved the royal court to the fort at London on the Tamesis. The king’s Great Hall is not yet built to be as fine as the one the family was accustomed to in Purbicinga, but it is larger. There is no sense of crowded bodies in the hall, but sounds echo, so there is no mistaking another’s words even when they are spoken on the other side of the room. Sedemai feels her face burn as she overhears all the comments on the color of her dress, though most of the words seem to be stupid gossiping over the cost rather than its meaning. Even Ælfthryth looks at Osthryth and Sedemai, though if she comments, her words are not heard. Surprisingly, it is not hostility that Sedemai finds on the Dowager Queen’s face, but sharp-eyed consideration.

Sedemai’s father won her mother’s hand by being crafty and wise, and he has an excellent sense of timing. He waits until all have greeted the king before he stands again, bowing at the waist in apology for the interruption. “I beg My Lord’s pardon, as I must act in the stead of another who cannot be here to do so himself on this fine holy day of our Lord and Savior’s birth.”

Æthelred might rule, but the Dowager Queen holds sway. The king does not speak until Ælfthryth nods in acceptance of Gabell interrupting the serving of their Christmas feast. “Then please speak, Sir Gabell,” the young king says.

Sedemai again thinks this all so unfair to Æthelred. She is only one year older than he, and she would _not_ wish to be sitting on that throne!

Gabell inclines his head. “Thank you, Your Highness. The young Lord Godric has entrusted my family with bringing his message and his gift to you on this day.”

Sedemai bites her own tongue so she does not smile at the whispering that begins. The knowledge that Godric entrusts their family, but not his uncle, will not be forgotten.

The king is still young enough to be a child first. “What sort of gift?”

Gabell strides forward with the wrapped linen bundle in his arms. “I do not know; he did not say.”

Æthelred barely waits for the Court magician to declare the package safe before he is unpinning the letter, placing it into his mother’s waiting hand, before all but ripping the linen away. Then he gasps and holds up something else of royal Tyrian purple—a full cloak, one embroidered with the old Saxon emblems of protection and power in black and gold.

“The Lord Godric writes that your new cloak has been made so that its hem may be let out many times, so that you may grow into it properly.” Ælfthryth attempts to sound composed, but even she is startled by the wealthy gift. “It is meant to fit you as a child and as a man.”

Gabell smiles. “Lord Godric sends his apologies that he cannot yet attend your Court in person, as he is dedicated to finishing his magical apprenticeship in order to best serve the Crown, Your Highness. Lord Godric wished for me to tell you before your Court, so that there would be no doubt, that this gifted cloak is meant to stand as his pledge of fealty, acknowledging you as his overlord. He congratulates you on holding the throne of England against her enemies.”

“And the gown your daughter wears, Sir Gabell?” Ælfthryth asks while her son is still distracted by a cloak that would see him stand as an equal among the richest rulers of Europe. “I assume that was a gift from Lord Godric, as well.”

“It was, Your Highness,” Gabell replies, bowing once more. “The gown is Lord Godric’s gift to the Lady Sedemai of Gifle as he asks her to accept his betrothal. If My Lord approves the match, of course,” he adds.

Sedemai gapes at her father as his scheme is revealed. She’s all but certain Godric said _no such thing_!

Æthelred stands, revealing that his servants have helped him to remove his old cloak and properly replace it with the new gift of Tyrian purple. “I accept Lord Godric’s pledge…and I approve,” he adds before his mother can speak. “Tell me how I might send Lord Godric my thanks for his continued allegiance, Sir Gabell.”

Sedemai glances at her mother while her father tells the king how to send a letter to Godric in the north. Osthryth looks immensely pleased, which means her parents conspired together. “Mother!” Sedemai hisses.

Osthryth smiles and shakes her head. “No matter Godric’s opinion of accepting your hand, I will see you kept safe from a madman’s coveting eye, daughter. Wystan has been looking in your direction with every gathering at Court. If Lord Godric finds the match unsuitable, he will have to return to England to tell us so himself.”

Sedemai nods before daring a glance at the current Magical Eorl of Somerset. His eyes are narrowed; the purple discolorations around the scars from the pox seem darker than usual, and his teeth are bared in a grimace as he seethes in angry silence.

She turns away before Wystan Grypusdor can notice her regard. Even if Godric returns to England displeased about becoming betrothed without his say, she can at least tell him of this moment and allow Godric the joy of his uncle’s thwarted rage.

 

*         *         *         *

 

_From the Guardian of the South-Western Door on the Roman Fosse Way_

_To the Lady Sedemai Osanna of Gifle, House of Wessex and House of the Forked River in the realm of the Kingdom of England under the Reign of His Highness, Æthelred II of England, House of Wessex_

_25 th December in the Year of Our Lord 978_

 

_Today I received the gift your House sent to me. By the careful wording of the letter accompanying it, it seems the gift to have been your idea. I’ve thanked your parents in a separate letter, but here I thank you, as well. This tiny oak tree of gold, no larger than a minted coin of silver, is a perfect replica of the tree that grows atop the hillside in the grove of my home. I asked for a token to remind me of you, and you give me that and more. How kind you are to me, just as you have always been. I will wear it proudly on a strand of leather strung tightly enough that no man can throttle me with your gift, and the tree will rest over the hollow of my throat._

_I hope what you receive from me brings you as much joy. I regret that its nature is not as personal and well thought as what you gave to me, but it is of great value for those born of the blood of Wessex. I sent it early, so that you might have time to prepare, as it would not do to receive that gift within the royal hall._

_After my last letter was sent, my teacher finally confessed that he means for me to be a Magical Master of War. I do not fear becoming one, not when I’ve always found my ease with weapons and fighting, but my teacher says that I will be such because it is needed. I fear what that means for our isle._

_I hope I am strong enough to be what is needed. The monks of this place, one in particular of whom I am fond of, quoted a verse from Deuteronomy that I remain mindful of:_

_ Peace be with me, even though I walk in the stubbornness of my heart. _

_May God and Christ watch over you and your family during this_

_Christmastide. I will light a candle in the church for you._


	13. Treachery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The year 980 in Briton begins with treachery and forgets to stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, these particular chapters are only semi-beta'd, seen by awesome @sanerontheinside & @norcumi. Therefore there may be mistakes made by me, and they might be epic.

Just after the Winter Solstice, a messenger who comes to the castle. He is still bleeding from his bandaged wound, but insists upon giving his news to the royal family of Muireb while healers work to remove the arrowhead embedded in the blade-bone of his shoulder.

Findláech thinks that there is likely worse news they could receive, but most of it involves the loosening of every devil in creation upon the world. Håvard Thorfinsson, third eldest of the five brothers born of Princess Geirrlöð ingen Donnchaidh, has murdered the ninth Jarl of Orkney, Arnfinn Thorfinnsson.

“Treachery, it was,” the messenger gasps out after emptying a goblet of water thrice over. “The Eorl Arnfinn’s wife, Ragnhildur Eiríksdóttir, conspired with Håvard. He did not challenge his brother in proper hólmganga.”

Ruaidrí lets out a heavy sigh. “There will be war in the north, then.” When those words are spoken, it’s as if his father’s hair suddenly becomes a dull grey cap.

Mochán glances at Findláech, possibly sharing in his concerns. “If not war for us, My Lord, then it certainly will be for them,” she says. “Though if I am not mistaken, Jarl Arnfinn’s death means that the Mormærdom of Gallaibh is once again part of Muireb.”

“It is,” Ruaidrí agrees, though his brow is furrowed as he speaks. “It will be so if it is not contested, but I do not think the new Jarl of Orkney will overlook the mormærdom for long. There is not only Gallaibh, but all the lands to the south to consider.”

“It is a blessing it is still winter,” Eilénóra says. “They might quarrel now, but they will not extend their quarrel to Gallaibh until the passing of the Lencten Equinox.”

Mochán nods. “That is when we will need to keep watch.”

Findláech does not turn thirteen until Iunius, but he has been watching his father’s health worsen as the cold deepened for the turn of the year. The healers do not think the vigor of youth will ever return to him.

The Mormær of Muireb cannot go out onto the field of battle alone. The kingdom cannot risk both of its heirs.

Findláech takes a deep breath. “Father. Mother. Send Máil Brigti to Mother’s kin in Éireann with the lencten thaw. My brother loves to spend time with them, and they will welcome his presence for the summer.”

His father gives Findláech a long, appraising look before nodding. “It is a wise idea. I already know you will be at my side, so it is best that your brother be far from this danger.”

“Then I suppose I will be, as well.”

Findláech grins as he turns, finding a tall shadow in the doorway. “Godric! You weren’t expected to return so soon.”

Godric enters the hall and drops into a brief bow for Findláech’s father and mother, no matter how often they’ve told him it isn’t necessary. “When the whole of the northern isle is about to become a disturbed hornet’s nest of angry men? There is nowhere else I would find myself. It is good to see you again so soon, though I would have hoped for better circumstances.”

“As would we,” Eilénóra says, inclining her head at Godric before giving him a warm smile. “Have your recent travels served you well?” Godric makes such a face in response to the question that the queen laughs. It’s a kind relief from the tension that has gripped the hall since the runner from the northern border of Muireb arrived.

Findláech takes a moment to marvel over the fact that Godric has gained yet further height, and now towers over them like the tallest among the Norræn. His eyes never lost the frost that accompanied him from Griffon’s Door in the south. With his long hair so insistent upon being the color of embers, he always looks to be bearing fire and ice together.

Though he will turn seventeen in the summer, Godric refuses to grow any sort of beard, but its lack does not make him look young. There has been no mistaking that Findláech’s named brother has been a man since age fourteen. Godric’s magical apprenticeship with Stígandr of Katanes has only sharpened the intense feeling that Godric is himself a sharp blade looking to fall upon the first man to utter foolishness in his presence.

“Where is Stígandr?” Findláech asks, realizing that Godric appears to have returned to Inbhir Nis alone.

Godric’s eyes narrow. “He has gone north. The Jarl Arnfinn was his friend for long years, but he also wishes to see if there is any way to…well.” Godric shakes his head. “I think it was mostly for Arnfinn that Stígandr made the journey at all.”

Ruaidrí sighs. “You may have greater knowledge of what is to come than we, Godric, given the time you have spent in the Orkney Isles. I would hear your words on this matter.”

Godric lifts his chin in response to the formal request. “Håvard may be attempting to claim the entirety of the Norðreyjar, but his treachery has roused the wrath of the family. Arnfinn has long declared that Skuli Thorfinnsson to be his Heir in the Norðreyjar. For now, the others have agreed to it within the judgement hall…but Skuli is not the same sort of warrior as Håvard, nor does he have the same number of men who would flock to his banner for war. When Håvard challenges Skuli for the Norðreyjar—and he will—Håvard will defeat him easily.”

“And when that happens, the others will wage war against Håvard.” Eilénóra rolls her eyes. “I regret Arnfinn’s passing, but I resent him also for being felled so easily. He has left us to defend our borders against the nightmare that will be Thorfinn’s heirs fighting amongst themselves.”

“They may fight all they like,” Mochán mutters crossly, “as long as they do not take it into their heads to attempt to claim more land than Gallaibh.”

“You will be reclaiming Gallaibh, then?” Godric asks in apparent surprise.

“We’ve no choice,” Ruaidrí replies. “I feel no need to reclaim it in truth, as Muireb’s coffers are fed well by the tithe the Norræn jarls provide for keeping watch over that land, but if we do not send men to the north, such lack will be seen as weakness. Muireb cannot afford a war that spreads further south than Gallaibh.”

“Muireb cannot truly afford a war at all,” Eilénóra says in a dry voice. “But no matter our wishes, we will see my distant kin on the battlefield this summer.”

“You are Heir to Somerset in England, Godric.” Ruaidrí grants Godric an intent, somber expression. “You must remain neutral in this conflict.”

“That is shit,” Godric retorts at once, but his voice is too mild for anyone to mistake it for a youth’s spiteful anger. “Everyone in the north knows that I am all but family to the rulers of Muireb. I will grant you the favor of heeding your words and avoiding the conflict when I can, but I’ve no doubt the fighting will find me.”

Findláech has no idea why those words catch his attention and stir his thoughts, but the realization comes to him nonetheless. “You believe it will be worse than we already suspect.”

Godric reaches up and touches a glint of gold at his throat, a pendant that Findláech has often wondered about but has never been allowed to glimpse in full. “They are the children of the Skullsplitter. I have been told that when he fought, he soaked the ground in such blood that it flowed around his ankles like a man standing in a stream.”

Mochán does not look impressed. “Much like the fighting, they’d best keep that particular sort of stream to themselves.”

Findláech has to leave with Mochán to discuss what sort of preparations will be needed before Muireb can take an army north. In truth, this should still be something Findláech does in his father’s company, but the illness that nearly took Ruaidrí’s life in November was not kind. It is not just the lack of returning vigor. Healer Waðsige is certain that the King of Muireb will never again be hale, though that is a truth Waðsige has granted only to Findláech and his mother. The three of them in council agreed not to tell Ruaidrí, hoping that the lack of knowledge of such things might feed the king’s confidence, and in turn his health. The monks are fond of saying that the spirit will overcome, and the magical healers often agree.

He isn’t fool enough to discard another’s advice, so when he lays out the plan, he doesn’t want fawning acquiescence. Not that Mochán would ever provide such. “We can’t simply take an entire army north when the weather warms. Even the Norræn would cease their squabbling with Håvard and turn all of their attention to us.”

“What, then?” Mochán asks. She crosses her arms beneath her breast as she regards the long table of war that still holds pride of place in his father’s private receiving chamber.

“Groups small enough to hide shall go north with the first thaw.” Findláech selects the right sort of tokens and slides them towards the northern border. “They should be light on their feet to travel quickly, but still strong enough to protect the border if there are early skirmishes. These groups will not wait directly at the border, but nearby. Runners from each group will be those who stand at the border itself, and will retreat back to spread word if a northern army is sighted. If all of these groups hold the line, that will grant us time to send a larger army north to defend this kingdom.”

“You would need magic for reinforcements to arrive in time.”

Findláech grins. “Not if we send them to predetermined points on pretext of summer exercises. If things remain quiet, I would prefer that we wait until after Beltane. Then many large groups will travel to every village in the north large enough to be ruled by one of father’s lords. There they will wait, training themselves and the youth of each village, until such time as they are needed.”

“All those villages of which are no further than a day’s ride from the border we must guard.” Mochán nods her approval as Findláech arranges each of the larger tokens appropriately. “It is a solid defence, Prince Findláech.”

“I am capable of nothing less than excellence in that regard, else I would _never_ win another game of Tafl against Godric,” Findláech says, and then jumps in place when a large hand comes down on his shoulder. “For God’s sake, will you sarding well _stop that_?” he squawks at Godric in outrage.

Godric grins at him. “My apologies. The old bastard has been insisting I learn to move silently, practicing no matter where we are, and…well, once I start, I often forget to stop. Weapons Master Mochán, might I borrow His Highness from you?”

Mochán smiles and dips her head at Findláech. “Of course, Lord Godric. I know that the king’s Heir is in safe hands with you.”

Once Mochán has left the room, Findláech gives Godric a suspicious look—rather annoyed that he has to look up such a distance to do so. He does hope he continues to gain height, or staring up at Godric all the time will injure his neck. “What is it? You normally have no difficulty speaking your mind in front of her.”

“I wish to give no one reason to question your abilities,” Godric murmurs, frowning. “You are most likely to be bloodied in battle this summer.”

“No, that was last month,” Findláech corrects, and is surprised when Godric stares at him in alarm. “You’d not heard?”

Godric shakes his head, troubled. “I know that Stígandr and I travel great distances, but one would think Muireb’s prince being in his first battle would be news that should travel like the wind through the trees. What happened?”

“I was greeting the lords of the western settlements on Father’s behalf,” Findláech says, “and a party of Gaeil-Norræn from Éireann landed on the coast. Fortunately, they were not of Mother’s family,” he adds, rolling his eyes. “I didn’t want to owe reparations to foolish kin who should know better.”

“Someone else’s foolish kin, then,” Godric notes, amused. “How did you fare, little brother?”

“I stabbed three idiots, was sick in the grass, and then chased the survivors all the way back to the beach. We contemplated raining arrows down on them until none were left, but I wanted someone to carry back word to whichever kingdom of Éireann they sailed from that Muireb is not available for their pleasure.”

“Then you accounted yourself well indeed, but I am still selfish and fear your loss.” Godric holds something out in his clenched fist, which has grown just as much as the rest of him. Findláech would not want to be struck by that hand, not for all the padded armor he could wear. “You have to open your palm to accept it, else the magic will not respond as it should.”

Findláech frowns and holds out his outstretched palm. A coiled length of linked gold chain drops into his palm, and with it comes the heavier weight of a stone. “What is it?”

“An early birthday present for my brother,” Godric says in an innocent-sounding voice. “It would have waited for Iunius, but circumstances being what they are, I thought it appropriate that you receive it now.”

Findláech holds up the gold chain, thinking it sturdy enough for war, but too short for anyone nearby to view. This is not ornamentation, but meant to be hidden beneath clothing and armor. The stone is one of the rare northern apatites that shines with the color of the sea rather than pale gold, and is not cut to faceted perfection. It is clear and beautiful, but just as rough and raw as it must have been when first hewn from the earth. “What _else_ is it?”

“Protection cannot also be a gift?” Godric asks. When Findláech glances up, Godric is looking not at him, but at the blue stone hung suspended in the air, his expression pensive. “I would rather be by your side for the battles to come, but your fight last month proves that I will not always be aware when trouble finds you. This is the only other thing I can do, and I wish you to wear it whenever you venture into battle.”

Findláech wraps the short chain around his fingers and closes his fist around the stone. He cannot use the magic in his blood, but he can still feel the strength of what resides in this stone. “I hope there are not so many protective enchantments attached that it makes me invisible and useless upon a battlefield,” he remarks in light tone. Findláech understands too well why Godric would give him this; he has lost too many of those who would be bound to him by blood.

“Please,” Godric scoffs, the worry leaving his face as his eyes brighten. “You would never forgive me if I took away your opportunity to earn your name in battle.”

“I would rather not. Earn my name from a battle, I mean,” Findláech murmurs. “I do not fear a battle, but I have enjoyed the peace of my childhood. Mother and Father were always so glad that my brother and I would know nothing of what it was like to live in fear of the Skullsplitter.”

“It may not be your sword that decides your name, but your ability to bring a return of that same peace,” Godric says. Findláech is about to wonder if Godric is speaking prophecy before he adds, “Besides, I was gifted my name by a _hill_ , Findláech. I daresay there are worse ways to earn the respect of men than to make them fear your sword.”

Findláech rolls his eyes. “Of course there are,” he agrees, knowing better than to try to dredge up the old argument. Godric of Griffon’s Door was named a guardian of others by the Green Folk, but won’t hear anyone speak of it as a rare honor. To Godric, it is nothing more than the terrible memory of what dire means were needed to escape horror.

He opens the clasp of the sturdy chain and places it around his neck. He has a brief impression of weight and tingling pressure before both are gone, and there is only the feel of the chain around his neck. “I’m surprised you’re not asking me to wear this all the time.”

Godric snorts. “If I thought you would, I’d ask…but I would also you not feel the need to wear such protection when you are within peaceful walls.”

“I see. Just in Alba, then,” Findláech replies.

Godric doesn’t laugh. That is when the full weight of what awaits them this summer strikes Findláech, leaving an uncomfortable boulder to make its new home in his gut.

It isn’t just the northern border that will trouble them. There are other kingdoms on this isle who will gladly take advantage of Muireb’s distraction.

 

*         *         *         *

 

Meraud of Srath Pheofhair turns thirty in the early warmth of the year 980. She is no longer Second to the Master of Staff and Master of the Kitchen; now she is only Master of the Kitchen. Wystan Grypusdor wished to punish her for the words she spoke in the defence of others, but had no wish to punish himself by seeing poor meals laid upon his great table.

It’s a foolish punishment. Wystan has grown comfortable in his position, and with that comfort, he forgets things he should not. A loss of rank does not mean that Meraud’s ability to listen departs with it.

That is what she does. She listens and learns. She whispers secrets to Richessa, Edytha, and Aubri when they pass in the halls, for they four are now the rogues of Griffon’s Door. When the time comes next summer, they will be ready. They will leave the keep in the dead of night as drugged guards sleep off their meal, and all those who are loyal to the true Eorl of Griffon’s Door and Somerset will join their Lord in the sanctuary found along the old Fosse Way.

They already know that Wystan Grypusdor will not hand over what is not his on Godric’s eighteenth birthday. Meraud has no doubt that Godric knows it, as well. She does not yet know what he will do, but Godric is the Eorl Leofric’s son in the ways of tactics and war, just as he is the Countess Godeva’s son in the ways of soothing tempers and ruffled feathers with the artless grace of his words and kindness of his smile.

She has watched Wystan, his cousin Rychard of Tigeham, and all of their vile men desecrate the halls of her dead Lord and Lady. When she visits Erneis’s grave, deliberately placed beyond the bounds of the Givelcestre licburg, she tells her murdered love of their plans. She promises, as she always does, that Erneis’s death—Oriel’s father Sevestre, the Lord Leofric, the Lady Laguia, and so many others—will never be for naught.

Soon it will be the Winter Solstice, when Meraud will light a lone candle in her icy room and whisper one of the old prayers. Next month, on the second of Ianuarius in the year 980, it will be a two full years since she last laid eyes upon the true Lord of Griffon’s Door. The Lord Godric will turn seventeen in the summer, and eighteen the next—and that is the date they wait for, their faith in its meaning ironclad. She often hears the others praying that time will speed its passage so that Godric will come into his inheritance sooner, and his eighteenth birthday will bring their freedom.

When Wystan Grypusdor is dead, Lord Godric himself will oversee the prayers spoken in respect for the fallen. Then they will be honored in the Ancestral Halls Meraud’s mother had loved, and in the Heaven her father kept faith in.

 

*         *         *         *

 

A fortnight after Beltane in 980, all sarding hell breaks loose in the north. Godric quietly congratulates Findláech on naming the time of war so well, even if they’d all rather the Orkney Eorldom had kept to their own isles.

Skuli Thorfinnsson is still amassing his strength in the north, attempting to hold the isles against Håvard and his new ally in Arnfinn’s widow, Ragnhildur Eiríksdóttir. While he is so distracted, two of the Skullsplitter‘s sons have decided to lay claim to Caithness. Lothvar Thorfinnsson is not a son of Geirrlöð ingen Donnchaidh and has never before attempted to claim anything rightfully belonging to her children, but seems to have changed his mind with Jarl Arnfinn’s death. Ljot Thorfinnsson, fourth of Princess Geirrlöð’s five sons, is also attempting to claim the northernmost region of Briton to become Mormaer of Gallaibh. Whether or not Ljot would then pay homage to Muireb as his overlord is something none of them know.

Godric insists they wait on one of the high hills surrounding the valley from dawn that morning until now, granting them the sight of the army taking its leave of Inbhir Nis. Even with the threat of war, it’s an impressive sight, one he has never before witnessed. All of his father’s battles had been small affairs. This is a large kingdom amassing its strength to defend against the fierceness of others. Armor of all types of shining metal manages to glimmer in what sun the clouds have allowed to shine. The valley is rich with the murmur of voices, the movement of men and horses, the jingle of tack, and higher-pitched clanging of weapons. Godric judges those who created those last sounds as lazy; properly secured, those weapons would make no noise at all.

“It should be an interesting year. Or three,” Stígandr comments. For all of the things his teacher has often grumbled about, Godric’s desire to witness this army’s departure is not one of them. Godric thinks that Stígandr is concerned for all of those involved on both sides of this war, but does not wish to speak of it. Instead, he is most often silent. Only once did Stígandr ask Godric if he plans to join the conflict on one side or another. Godric spoke truly: unless he is forced to act otherwise, he will do as the King of Muireb has requested and avoid this northern war.

“Are we taking wagers on it, then?” Godric asks. He rises in his saddle when he recognizes the royal banner for Muireb, flown from a standard on the horse ridden by dark-skinned Weapons Master Mochán Oddrsdottir. Findláech is tall and gangly and easy to make out, even at this distance. To Godric’s relief, Ruaidrí is sitting tall in his saddle, looking not the slightest bit infirm.

“Håvard has the strength of will and the willingness to shed blood to take the Norðreyjar and Katanes both,” Stígandr says, his eyes darting up when a black raven flies near the column of men on horseback. Godric finds himself relieved that it does not fly over them, but along the length of the army. That is a mixed omen. Death might wait at the end of the journey, but not desolation.

“He does,” Godric agrees, settling back down in his saddle when the royal family is lost to view. “But I think Hlodvir will be jarl when the fighting is done.”

“Hlodvir Thorfinnsson?” Stígandr gives him a curious look that does not disguise the keen gleam in his eye. “He has not even entered into this conflict. He supports the current jarl, but none of Hlodvir’s men marched into Katanes with Skuli Thorfinnsson.”

“Exactly.” Godric’s eyes track upwards again when he hears the call of a gyre falcon, but he doesn’t see one in flight. “Perhaps Hlodvir does not want the Norðreyjar, but perhaps he does. He is wise enough to be canny, Stígandr. If Hlodvir simply waits for the rest of his brothers to weaken their armies, exhaust themselves, and slaughter each other, there will be none left to contest his claim to become the next Jarl of Orkney. Hlodvir Thorfinnsson will begin this conflict at his greatest strength, and end it the very same way.”

“Hmm.” Stígandr looks to be chewing the inside of his cheek. “I wonder where Sigurd Hlodvirsson has placed his loyalty.”

Godric shrugs. “Everything I’ve ever learned of that man tells me he will pledge himself to the banner that will grant him the most opportunities to prove himself in battle. He is politically minded enough to consider the banner most likely to survive the fighting, but if he is wise, he will fight under Skuli’s banner until his uncle’s banner is no more.”

“The better to avoid his father’s wrath if Hlodvir decided his eldest son’s actions meant he would no longer be Hlodvir’s named Heir.”

“It’s what I would do, and Sigurd is not stupid,” Godric says. Talk of Sigurd makes him think of Sigurd’s younger sister Helga, who he has seen only once since their first meeting during the winter in 978. He wonders if she has aged enough to concern herself with the war her countrymen are about to fight, or if she remains within the Grove. His great-grandmother, Edda, says that Helga spends much time in the Grove. The trees in that place have ways of playing tricks with the flow of time.

“Where does your path take you now, Godric?” Stígandr asks, jostling Godric out of his own thoughts.

Godric smiles. “I said I would stay out of the conflict in the north, and I mean to do so. However, I doubt that a war in the north will distract the east and southern kingdoms from attempting to take advantage. I suspect Alba in particular.”

Stígandr blows out a long breath of resigned disgust as he looks heavenward. “Sometimes I wonder if that man has a sensible thought in his head at all.”

“He certainly exemplifies the terrible standard in which the south views the rulers of the north,” Godric returns dryly. “Greed and treachery are afterthoughts with him, but he will be easy enough for us to deal with.”

“No. The king of Alba will be easy enough for _you_ to deal with,” Stígandr corrects him. “I will be traveling north.”

Godric stares at him, feeling unsettled for the first time in over a year. “You’re my teacher. I must then go with you.”

Stígandr shakes his head, a smile on his bearded face. Then he removes his hat and leans over to drop it onto Godric’s head. “You will be keeping an eye on that for me. Its shape makes me too recognizable in the north, and I’d prefer to remain unnoticed.”

Godric touches the soft edge of Stígandr’s weather-beaten, long-pointed hat. “Please explain your actions to me plainly, Stígandr. I want no misunderstandings between us.”

“Plainly, then.” Stígandr nudges his horse so that it trots a step closer, allowing Stígandr to place his hand on Godric’s shoulder. “You were forged by bright and terrible flames, Godric Grypusdor. Those trials were harsher things than anything I could show you as my student. The lessons I did have to teach, you learned quickly and well. You mastered a concern of mine and refused to reject your love of history and lore, which can be a man’s saving grace when war calls to his blood. Continue to let it be yours, and you will be among the greatest of men to ever live and breathe upon this isle. You may not be seventeen years of age until the passing of another month, but you know what is needed to act in defence of yourself and others as the Guardian Fire of the South.”

“Oh,” Godric whispers, his skin crawling from hearing Stígandr call him by the name granted to him by those within the Door. “Is this to be our parting?”

“For now,” Stígandr says, unconcerned. “We will see each other again for one final time. You will understand all that is to be when that moment comes.”

“I can only pledge to do my best, then,” Godric replies, and glances up at the floppy edge of the hat. “Are you certain about this?”

Stígandr rolls his eyes. “Bah. You need a hat, and that one will certainly keep the rain off your head. If you need the sentiment, wear it as a reminder that if you truly need me, I will be there.”

Godric manages to nod. “Very well. Where will you go, Wanderer?”

“Those of the Orkney isles and Gallaibh are my people. I will not fight under a fool’s banner, but there are many whose weapons are quill and ink, plow and scythe. My staff and I will be their protection when war might otherwise destroy all that they are.” He holds out his arm. “Until we meet again, my young friend.”

Godric reaches out and clasps Stígandr’s arm. “Smite the deserving, old man.”

Stígandr grins. “And with those words, you speak with the fire of Griffon’s Door.” He nudges his horse again, turning its nose to the north.

Godric watches him ride away, feeling elated and bereft. Stígandr has always done things his own way, but Godric would have appreciated some warning that he was about to be cast loose from his apprenticeship.

Then again, Stígandr said they would meet again. Godric hopes that when such occurs, Stígandr remembers to tell Godric what sort of magical mastery he might finally have earned to pair with his earlier mastery of Mind Magic.

 

*         *         *         *

 

On the nineteenth of Maius, Sedemai is invited by His Highness King Æthelred to Court. Somehow they have struck up a companionship, though Sedemai would not label it a friendship. The Dowager Queen guards against such closeness, watching her son like a vicious hawk for the first signs of treachery.

Æthelred doesn’t seem to mind—or does not notice—his mother’s fierceness. He merely tells Sedemai that she is his honored cousin, as is her betrothed, and it would be ill mannered of him not to invite Sedemai to his table in London on the day of her fifteenth birthday.

Sedemai always nods and smiles, curtseying as she was taught, though she still refuses to wear the veil to hide her fire-bright hair. She pins its unruly curls, announcing without words that her hand is not available for suit. The way of using hair as another Courtly language is common in the southern kingdoms, and Sedemai is fond of it.

With every visit to London, she wears the silk dress made from the fabric Godric gifted to her—Tyrian purple over a white cemes. Royal innocence, it declares, though Sedemai thinks in these dark days that innocence is for children, and should be treasured and fought for whenever possible.

Even her gown is not entirely innocent. She has grown since it was first tailored, and has taken to adding panels of silk embroidered by her mother to its sides, sleeve edges, hem, and bosom. Always she chooses black silk layered with gold, silver, and hints of scarlet. Hidden among the swirls of threads is the magic her mother Osthryth weaves, using the old spells of the Saxons as well as the Britons of her father’s line.

Wystan Grypusdor is always present when Sedemai is in Court. She often wonders who tells him when she will be there, and hides her revulsion when he insists on taking her hand. He never plants the courtier’s false kiss just above her skin, but presses his lips directly to her hand. When he looks up afterwards, it is easy to read the challenge in his eyes: _When he is dead,_ _you will be mine_.

Sedemai smiles and lets hellfire and spite burn in her eyes as she extracts her hand from his treacherous grasp. _You have no idea the fire you have awoken in the blood of Grypusdor_.

She accepts Æthelred’s much more innocent hand and sits down to an early dinner with her cousin. The gossiping birds in Æthelred’s Great Hall may chatter about her uncouth ways and lack of veil, but Sedemai’s gown is the envy of the entire Court.

 

*         *         *         *

 

Wystan Grypusdor, called Ánġenemne by far too many fools to be tolerable, is in a black mood. It has followed him like an unceasing storm from the moment his hated nephew departed with twenty-five children of Griffon’s Door—and somehow, their method of escape was the Door itself.

It is no longer enough that he killed Laguia himself. Wystan curses his mother in the languages he has learned in his life, taking particular pleasure in reciting the foul words above the poor grave granted to her in Givelcestre. When he is done, he leaves the rotting carcasses of dead animals before her headstone in offering, his thanks to her for never teaching him the proper ways to visit the family Door.

He lives in a keep that is under his control, but suspects all those who remain who are not loyal to him by virtue of solid coin. He never hears a sound, yet there are whispers always.

The people of Griffon’s Door expect that young upstart to return. They expect Godric to reclaim what is rightfully his, to eject Wystan and leave him scrounging for crumbs at a sympathetic table when he should be sitting at its head.

As long as that bastard whelp lives, Wystan will not truly hold Griffon’s Door and Somerset. His very existence alters the weave of the enchantment he wove to make this land his, filtering through the threads to remind eorls and lords that Wystan is a mere Steward, not their ruler.

“Rychard,” he growls as he stalks his way into the Great Hall. His cousin by virtue of his marriage to the House of The Strand rises from his chair, his eyes already narrowed to eager, murderous slits. His finest ally might hate Godric Grypusdor even more than Wystan, and that is to Wystan’s advantage. “I have made a decision.”

“You will let me hunt and kill your bastard nephew?” Rychard asks, pleasure in his rough voice. “I can drag his corpse before that boy-king in London so that all would know of his unfortunate fate.”

Wystan gives brief thought to allowing Rychard what he desires before shaking his head. “No. That would stir sympathy that we can ill afford if we are to hold this land and the power it affords, cousin. The army we are amassing is not yet ready to take on the House of Wessex, no matter the youth of the child on the throne.”

Rychard is visibly disappointed, but nods. “Very well. What is your decision?”

“We must give him reason to return before his eighteenth birthday,” Wystan says, flexing his hands and feeling the rush of magic beneath his skin. Ever since he used the blood of a dying man to fuel that vast enchantment, his magic has been like the surge of the tide with the desire to do so again. “If my nephew challenges me in a foolhardy manner and dies from it, there will be little sympathy for such an act.”

“He has been properly apprenticed to a magician in the north since his escape, cousin,” Rychard reminds him. He takes a step back when Wystan turns and levels a glare at Rychard for granting him that reminder. As if he could forget. “I say it only out of concern that he might have learned enough to best you.”

Wystan dismisses the notion at once. “Godric was a hapless fool when it came to magic under my tutelage. He will not have learned enough in such a brief time to best me, no matter if he uses a wand or a sword.”

He turns to the guard standing watch at the hall’s entrance. “I need one dwelling within these walls whose death will be of no concern for the workings of this keep. Who do you suggest, Hermeis?”

Hermeis looks startled to be asked. “That half-wit in the kitchens. They call him Uchered. He has a strong body, but strong bodies can be replaced, My Lord.”

Wystan nods, recalling the young man in question. He does not have the wit to use the strength he has in his own defence. “That will do.” He glances at Rychard, who has merely raised an eyebrow, curious but waiting to be told what is to be done. It’s one of the qualities that convinced Wystan to retain his cousin’s service after slaughtering most of the fools slumbering within his dead wife’s keep. “The Kitchen Master’s daughter, Edytha. Fetch her, Rychard—as a kind man would escort his lady.” He glances down at his scarred knuckles. “Of course, I will understand if it takes a bit of time for you to retrieve her.”

Rychard’s eyes widen in mock-surprise. “You are suggesting that I violate our pledge.”

Wystan appreciates the play on words. “I know your eye has wandered in her direction often, cousin. Consider it a gift, but it is also necessary for what is to be done. I’m sure it will not be a hardship to…perform adequately.”

Rychard smiles. “No, cousin. It will certainly be my pleasure.”

“Good.” Wystan waits for both Hermeis and Rychard to depart before drawing his wand and turning the nearest trestle table to splinters and ash. He well remembers the last thing that insolent bastard said to him before disappearing into the grove:

_But what if I were to rule Griffon’s Door better than my father, Uncle?_

Wystan flicks his wand at the ash, crafting a breeze that cleans up the mess he made of the table. “I will be seeing you again soon, nephew. Pray that God grants you mercy, for I will not.” 


	14. The Messenger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I’ve no need to kill every man I meet. In fact, I wish to kill very few.”
> 
> “You are very odd."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy thoughts to betas @norcumi, @mrsstanley, & @sanerontheinside! (@jabberwockypie was distracted)
> 
> This early posting brought to you by another Fundraisening milestone being passed!

Godric misses his teacher’s company, but he takes no time to ponder their parting. Instead, he keeps his ear to the wind and his hand upon the earth. It’s not really Divination, or Sight, or anything that magicians have given name to. If one were to be crude and honest, Godric would tell you that he simply knows when one fool is going to kick shit into another fool’s face, and suddenly there is a valley full of angry fighting men and women who don’t even know what the original argument is about, but they will gladly kill each other for it. The talent has served him well during his apprenticeship, though he is often grateful that the squabbling in the north did not become troublesome until Godric began his second year of dealing with Stígandr’s oddities.

A messenger bird from the south, along with those instincts, tells him exactly what he needs to do. He’s made enough friends since his abrupt arrival in the north of Briton that it is easy to gain what he’ll need to put a stop to certain foolishness before it becomes folly.

“Your Highness,” Godric greets Cináed mac Maíl Coluim when the lead horse of the approaching army comes close enough to reveal her rider. “A pleasant afternoon to you.”

The King of Alba doesn’t return his greeting, not at first. His eyes are busy roving over the ranks of fighters lined up behind Godric, armed with scythes, swords, axes, and knives. “Lord Godric of Somerset and England. What is this?”

“This? Well, it’s a bit small, but this is an army,” Godric replies, grinning cheerfully at Cináed. “One that is not much fond of other mounted armies riding through their fields, destroying their crops.”

Cináed stares at Godric, his brown eyes narrowed with anger and distrust. “What amount of coin would I need to grant you for your army to stand aside and let me and mine pass by?”

Godric pretends to consider it. “Well, this is the border that separates the Kingdom of Alba from the Kingdom of Muireb—and really, it isn’t even the land of Alba. This is Màrr, ruled by Mormær Éímhín mac Cináeda. Either way, Muireb is a bit busy with matters in the north, so I will be saying it on their behalf, with permission: Gallaibh is not yours. It was not your right nor in your power to grant a title to a man to hold that land when you don’t hold it yourself.”

Cináed is stubborn, Godric will give him that. “The Eorl Skuli Thorfinnson will not be pleased when I am not there to support him, as I promised.”

“I do believe Jarl Skuli Thorfinnson is about to have a bit more to occupy his thoughts than any ire he might hold against you,” Godric replies. He looks back at the men and women who gathered gladly under his borrowed Moravian banner. They are all close enough to Alba to know they have no wish to be ruled by its current king.

Godric returns his attention to Cináed. “The young prince who will rule Muireb when his father dies is a man I call brother. I will not let his kingdom falter in the south while he rallies to defend the lands of the north. Go home, My Lord. Rule what you have already claimed, and rule it well, and there will be none who shame you for it.”

King Cináed tries one more time. “What sort of man are you, Godric Grypusdor, that you will not even enter into combat with me?”

Godric is startled into laughing. “The sort of man who knows that there is more than one way to win a battle. If you travel south when Somerset is mine, you will still be my guest—provided you honor my hospitality, of course.”

He thinks Cináed mac Maíl Coluim might be grinding his teeth. Godric has given him parting words he cannot ignore without losing face. “Of course. I would be grateful that you would still grant such an invitation—and I will do the same.”

“Of course,” Godric agrees with a nod. “God be with you on your journey home, My Lord.”

Cináed’s tone is almost civil “And with you, Lord Godric.” He turns his horse around and begins leading his army back to Sgàin, where it sarding well belongs.

“Well, that was fun,” Mac Hamish says. Godric still hasn’t worked out if that is his given name, or if the man had parents with a sense of humor and his father’s name is actually Mac Machamish. Knowing the Gaeils, it could be either. “What a wagonload of shit that was.”

“I’m just glad we didn’t need to fight anyone today,” Eoddah chimes in. “I like this skirt. I didn’t have time to change clothes when the cry went out for arms.”

“Should we give it up yet, Lord Godric?” Iomhar asks. “It’s the King of Alba. It would be no surprise to me if he doubled back.”

Godric would rather send a runner to tail them, making certain the king goes back to his hall, but that would rouse the wrong sentiment if the runner were caught. “We’ll set a watch. There are not many places that would give a king’s army easy passage unless he decides to bypass the hills and dare the water all the way to Gallaibh. It’s not more than five days’ ride for an army to return to Sgàin. If there is no sign of him in that time, then the King of Alba has seen wisdom.”

“For once,” Ragnhaid mutters. “I’ll volunteer for the first group who keeps watch, Lord Godric. I don’t have tending duties at the moment, but others do.”

“What about our kin in the north?” Tadhg asks. “If Skuli Thorfinnsson is marching into Gallaibh and calling himself its king…”

Godric snorts. “If Jarl Skuli thinks he can do such a thing without retaliation from Muireb, then he’s a complete fool.” Granted, Godric has suspected that for the entire summer. Skuli Thorfinnsson does not have a certain hold on any isle in the north, yet still tries to regain Caithness for the Norðreyjar. The fact that he will be faced with the mighty armies of both Ljot Thorfinnsson and Lothvar Thorfinnsson doesn’t seem to have occurred to him.

“Our king and our prince are in Gallaibh, Lord Godric,” Iomhar says, biting at his lower lip. He’s young enough that Godric would prefer he not be on the battlefield, but Iomhar proved he could wield a scythe as skillfully to slice down a man as he does wheat. “Will they be all right?”

 _They should be_ , Godric thinks, but still he feels uneasy. Three brothers may have already come to blows in Caithness, and the armies of Muireb are not likely to be ignored once Thorfinn’s Heirs have taken note of their presence. He told Ruaidrí that he would stay out of the conflict, but he will also not stand by and let the king of Muireb and his family falter. If they are in danger, Godric will see them protected.

On the fourth evening, a large spotted owl from the south finds him. Godric smiles as he recognizes his sister’s favored bird. He told her that a squab would be a safer choice in times such as these, but the one time Leffeda attempted such, her spiteful owl hunted down the squab, had it for a meal, and then stole the letter so as to deliver it himself.

“Hello, Rigel,” Godric greets the owl. After retrieving the sealed scroll, he uses his wand to summon a startled, struggling mouse, but doesn’t give it to the owl. “Fair is fair,” he says, releasing his magical hold on the rodent. “If you can catch it, you get to eat it.”

Rigel gives him a disgusted look and takes off with a heavy sweep of his wings, launching himself at the prey trying to escape in the grass. Godric turns away from Rigel’s hunting and passes his family ring over the wax seal to release the enchantment protecting it.

He hopes the letter holds good news. God knows that there is little good news to be had in the north these days.

 

_From the Countess Leffeda Bathshua Grypusdor of Clover’s Hand in the realm of the_

_Kingdom of England under the Reign of His Highness, Æthelred II of England, House of Wessex_

_To the Erstwhile Guardian of the South-Western Door on the Roman Fosse Way, Apprentice_

_of the Northern Wanderer_

_19 th Iunius in the Year of Our Lord 980_

 

_My greetings to you on your seventeenth birthday, Little Brother. I hope this day finds you well, and all of the days to follow it. I know from your last letter, brief though it was, that your magical apprenticeship fares well. From the lessons I myself gave you in our youth, I know that you must be a source of constant trial, so your teacher must themselves have the patience of a saint._

_There are ill rumors from the north reaching even our southern ears that war has come to the Orkney Eorldom of the Norse. It is too much for me to hope that you are well away from the affairs of the Norsemen, especially when it endangers friends to our small family. Be safe, of good health, and abundant cheer. You have a single year remaining before your inheritance is yours to claim, and on that day, Somerset will not be the only eorldom to celebrate._

_I fear for our old home, and pray every day that The Almighty will be merciful to those who wait in bondage for release. I am grateful with every prayer that so many were released by your clever methods. Truly you are a Guardian, if a mad one, and Father could have chosen no wiser Heir for Grypusdor._

_I wished to wait to be certain, but now on the day of your birth, I can write these words with a glad, certain hand. I am with child, one the Healers are certain will be another boy—and magical, the first child of mine and my husband’s line to show such potential since Wilm_ _ær’s birth in 972. My eldest son and Heir is well, as is his brother Isaac and sisters Elfreda and Mary. Elfreda grows so much to resemble her namesake that it sometimes pains my heart, but that tells me it was right to name her for our lost brother Alfrid. They would have made quite the pair with their easy laughter._

_The healers say the baby will arrive in December. I’ve yet to birth any of my children during the middle of winter. It will be interesting to see if it is easier than birthing a child during the heat of summer or the stealthy return of the sun during the hærfest._

_I do not know what other news reaches you from the south, so I will tell you that the Lady Sedemai continues to confound the Court of our King. I will sorely miss listening to the gossiping biddies of London when it is no longer safe for me to travel such distances. Lady Sedemai’s mother, the Lady of Gifle, is in good health that is shared by Sir Gabell. Their son, Aldredus Iehanel, continues to charm all who encounter him. He is strong for a child who has only seen a year and some months, and runs about without fear of falling._

_Lady Osthryth and Sir Gabell have already named Aldredus of Gifle as Heir to the House of the Forked River, kin to the House of Wessex, and eventual Guardian of the Door on the Fosse Way. I would have thought that they would name the Lady Sedemai such, given her wild ways, but suspect they have other plans._

_I will not lie to my only brother. I know they have other plans, but I shan’t tell you. Taunting you still holds far too much appeal._

_—Leffeda Grypusdor, Countess of_ _Thornbyrig_

 

Godric lowers the scroll, feeling a momentary sense of bewilderment. He hadn’t realized that summer had already progressed to such an extent, and thus missed his own birthday. “Iomhar, what day is it?”

Iomhar looks up from the small cooking fire he is tending. “The twenty-first of Iunius according to my mother’s time-keeping, Lord Godric. The birthday of His Highness Findláech mac Ruaidrí.”

“I had wondered why everyone seemed to be coming to camp a bit more sodden than usual this morning,” Godric murmurs, smiling. “Happy birthday, little brother.”

Odd. It feels no different to be seventeen, though he would not have celebrated even had he known. He holds to the oath he made not to celebrate his birth until Griffon’s Door is free. Godric wonders if Findláech found cause to celebrate, or if he spent the day of his thirteenth birthday in the midst a battle.

Godric takes a moment to look northward, letting his magic speak to him of what occurs elsewhere. Of all the magicians he has met, only Stígandr has spoken of being able to do the same. Godric continues to blame his journey through Griffon’s Door for this ability, though it is, at least, a useful one.

There is still a sense that he needs to travel north, but he does not know if it relates to danger to Findláech and Ruaidrí’s campaign in Caithness, or if Queen Eilénóra is troubled during her vigil held within the walls of Inbhir Nis. “I would appreciate it if you would have your sister bring me a drink to celebrate the prince’s birth when she arrives for her turn at the watch this evening,” Godric says, and Iomhar gives him a knowing grin. Godric politely ignores the expression; what he and Irena do in each other’s company when they are alone is no one’s business but their own.

“Tomorrow morning, I will be taking my leave, Iomhar. The King of Alba has proven that he will not be a threat to these lands this summer.”

“Where will you go?” Iomhar asks.

Godric rolls up the letter his sister sent, intending to add it to the other correspondence he has kept carefully Preserved and shrunken in his belt pouch. “North.”

 

*         *         *         *

 

The fastest way to Caithness would be to charter a boat, but Godric is not fond of sailing. The second-fastest route is to return to Inbhir Nis, following the green paths around the firths before returning to the coast as it winds its way north.

He is perhaps a day’s ride distant when he is beset by a raiding party of Norsemen. “You have to be joking!” he shouts, swinging his sword to intercept the first ax attempting to remove his limbs. “I have yet to even arrive in Katanes!”

By the time Godric realizes he is vastly outnumbered, he is in the midst of armed and armored men, and has no choice. He fights, or he dies.

Godric can’t safely keep to his horse without endangering her, so he leaps from Ehwaz’s back and grasps hold of the closest Norseman, tackling the warrior to the ground. The hilt of his spathe puts a significant dent in the Norseman’s bronze helm. Godric leaves him senseless in the grass and flings a knife at the next man charging him. The blade embeds itself in the man’s upper arm, causing him to drop his sword. Then Godric turns and finds the tallest of the warriors already upon him. He has no room to raise a weapon, and instead flings himself at the man’s feet. Godric grimaces when his ribs are bruised, but there is an indignant screech as the other warrior falls on his face in the churned earth. He kicks the fallen man across the face and rolls over, losing Stígandr’s hat as he gains his feet.

Only then does Godric have time to draw his wand. He can’t hear his own spells over the too-loud pounding of his heart.

Even after he fells two more warriors, none retreat. These are men used to magic. Worse, he is a man casting spells among Norse warriors, who are now doubly intent on seeing him slaughtered for his blasphemy.

_Do not simply react. Plan. Think!_

Godric draws in a breath and then blasts the ground with his wand, carving a wide trench in the earth that separates him from most of the attacking Norsemen. They leap back as the earth splits apart, scrambling to remain on stable ground. That gives Godric the opportunity to dispatch the three Norsemen who are trapped on this side of the trench with him. By the time the last man is felled, his spatha is red with blood. All of his knives are embedded in the flesh of others. He desperately needs his bow, but it is unstrung and strapped securely to his horse. Ehwaz has wisely chosen to leave the battlefield, and won’t return until she judges it safe enough for a horse not trained in war.

He dislikes using the Killing Curse when he has a sword in his hand, but he is no fool. Not only does he wish to live, there are others whose lives depend on his survival. That bright green light and two more dead Norsemen finally convinces the raiding party to flee the valley, though not without pausing long enough to send a volley of arrows at him. Godric scowls and casts a solid Shield Charm. The arrows bounce harmlessly off the wall of magic to land haphazardly in the grass around him.

“You left your arrows behind!” Godric yells after the fleeing men, feeling ludicrous anger at their actions. Loosing those arrows was a waste of time. There should have been no raiding party in this area at all, not when the current conflict is focused on the Orkney Isles and Caithness.

Godric walks over and nudges the man with the dented helm, who is starting to stir. “You! Where did you sail from?”

The man cracks open his eyes, revealing angry green spotted with brown. “Ég mun ekki tala við þig, skrælingi!”

Not Gaoidhealg, then. Godric addresses the fallen warrior in proper Norrænt Tal while showing the man the tip of his bloodied sword. “Where did you sail from, idiot?”

The man nearly crosses his eyes to look at the sword hovering just above his nose. “Noregi,” he finally admits, looking up at Godric. “We sailed from Noregi.”

“Haakon Jarl does not have enough to do to secure Noregi on the Bluetooth’s behalf?”

The man averts his gaze. “Our king pays no tribute to Harald of Denmark!”

Godric slaps himself in the forehead, which makes him flinch. At some point, he was wounded in the frenzy of sudden battle. “Your king doesn’t even know you’re here, does he?” The Norseman’s resentful silence is answer enough. “Christ Almighty, I do not have time for this.” He leaves the idiot with the dented helm bound in magical rope and checks the others to see if any of them live. When that is done, he has three living, injured warriors and eight dead ones.

He stares at the line of corpses after laying them out in the now-convenient trench. He doesn’t recall felling eleven men, but he must have done so, since he’s faced with burying eight of them and disposing of three more.

Godric glances back at the living, two men and one woman, the latter who has not stopped snarling curses at him in Norræn since she awoke. He will not execute prisoners who have done no wrong other than to live as their countrymen do, but he cannot cast them loose. If they would not immediately attempt to kill him, they would rejoin the others, and then _all_ of them would be hounding him across Muireb.

He smiles as a solution occurs to him. He has no time for this problem, but nothing says he cannot pass the difficulty along to someone else.

While he waits for an answer to his Patronus, Godric strips the dead warriors of every single item of use but for the clothes they wear, their armor, and a blade to be buried with. These men fell in battle and he’ll grant them that honor, but they won’t be needing coin in their new grave.

He looks up when there is a flash of blue-white light and finds a badger staring down at him. “It will be just a moment,” the badger says, and then vanishes without waiting for acknowledgement.

Godric has climbed back out of the trench, and is attempting to do something about the gash on his head when Helga appears in the valley a few paces away by virtue of Síðian. She is taller than when he last saw her, and looks to be much more of a young woman than a small child, but her hair is just as golden, her eyes just as blue. The beauty hinted at on a much younger face is starting to blossom now in truth. Godric suspects that when she is grown, she will be able to devastate the hearts of men with a single glance.

“Lord Godric of Griffon’s Door in Somerset,” Helga greets him, an impish smile on her face. “I hope that this is not some bizarre and badly timed courting gift.”

Godric laughs. “Greetings to you, Seiðkona Helga Hlodvirsdóttir. Or is it Vǫlva Helga? Or shall I refer to you as the Lady Helga instead?”

Helga ducks her head, amused rather than bashful. “I am all three of those things, but I cannot yet claim the title of vǫlva in truth. It is good to see my barbarian friend again.”

“And it is good to see you, though I’d like it to be for circumstances other than these.” Godric wipes at the trickle of moisture on his forehead again when it threatens to drop into his eye.

“So I see,” Helga says, though if she is aware of the play on words, she doesn’t admit to it. She wanders over to the open trench, pursing her lips at the sight of the eight dead warriors lying within it. “You left them their blades. That was very kind of you, considering it appears as if an entire raiding party decided it was honorable to attack a single man. And where is the Wanderer, anyway?”

“Somewhere within Katanes,” Godric replies, dropping Stígandr’s hat upon the nearest rock so he can press a cloth torn from an outgrown linen shirt to his head. It was not a sharp implement that hurt him, but something dull-edged. His head feels bruised; his hair is matted with blood from a wound that wishes to bleed like the removal of a limb. “He was concerned for the people who live there, but has no wish to choose a banner to fight under.”

“That does sound like him,” Helga murmurs. She glances back at the bound ones, who are all staring at her. With her fine dress embroidered with black and gold, the gilded weapons, her gold jewelry, and the bejeweled veil pinned into place over her unbound hair, it is beyond obvious that she is a young Norsewoman of great importance. “I don’t recognize any of these warriors, Godric.”

“They said they sailed from Noregi,” Godric explains, and Helga frowns. “They do not wish to speak of it, but they sailed without approval of King Haakon.”

Helga mirrors Godric’s earlier gesture and slaps her hand to her forehead. “Oh, by the gods. We’ve enough troubles on these isles right now, you complete imbeciles!” she shouts at the three, who look angry and bewildered.

“Is your father still remaining neutral in the conflict between his brothers?” Godric asks.

“Of course he is. Father will support my uncle Skuli if he triumphs, but otherwise—” Helga’s mouth turns down in a mournful frown. “Things have been difficult since the Jarl Arnfinn’s death. Why do you ask?”

“Well, your people would think I were courting you if I simply handed you three prisoners as a gift,” Godric says, and grins when Helga gives him a dry look. He has no idea what she’s been doing for the last year and a half, but her sense of humor is still a delight. “But were I to pass these three on to you for safekeeping and say that they are a gift to your father for keeping his armies away from a conflict that endangers my friends and loved ones in Muireb…”

“Ah, gratitude disguised as a bribe. That should do nicely,” Helga agrees after a moment. “Mother and Father will enjoy educating these three fools as to why it is not a good idea to raid in other lands without first telling your jarl where you journey to. It’s hard to pay a ransom for the return of a warrior when one does not know where they are.”

“We meant no offence, Lady Helga,” the warrior of the dented helm says in a low voice, his eyes glued to the grass before him.

“If you can learn, then you will serve my father’s household well.” Helga’s voice rings with the beginnings of noble imperiousness. Godric has never bothered to learn such for himself. He is told that when he speaks and acts, he is either charming or terrifying, and that suits him fine. “Lord Godric, I will be certain that my father sends his thanks for such a gift. Your thoughtfulness has also served to avoid any political difficulties with our overlord in Noregi.”

“You’re welcome, Lady Helga. Your father should be made aware that there are at least nine more that were with this particular raiding party,” Godric says. “Those that escaped fled north to the coast. I would judge they landed just beyond the Muireb Firth near Inbhir Nis.”

“Plentiful places to hide,” Helga agrees, looking irritated. Then she turns and narrows her eyes at him. “Hold still. If you flinch, I won’t heal you at all.”

“It’s nothing!” Godric protests, but when Helga retrieves a yew wand of colorful red, yellow, and gold from her sleeve, he freezes in place. He has no wish to be hexed by an impatient Norse magician. Coping with Stígandr in a foul temper is all the lesson in that he has ever needed.

“I thought you bore a staff,” he says as Helga mutters under her breath, more singing than words he can understand. The magic on his head and brow feels cool and soothing, as a proper and gentle healing spell should.

He has plentiful experience with those, as well.

“I did, but during one of the fights just after Jarl Arnfinn’s death, I broke it over a fool’s head,” Helga answers him after she finishes her work. “There. You still need a bath, but that is much improved. Left untouched, that would have caused your head to ache for weeks. Did someone strike you with a rock?”

“I don’t know,” Godric admits, feeling tacky blood beneath his fingers but no lingering sense of a wound. “It was an unexpected ambush. I was more concerned with surviving than taking inventory of each wound I took.”

“There were twenty?” Helga gives him a long, appraising look that makes the hair rise on the back of Godric’s neck. She might not yet be vǫlva, but there is power in her gaze that fits with what Great-grandmother Edda and Stígandr have said of their ways. “I’m surprised they are not all lying dead in that trench, then.”

Godric frowns. “I’ve no need to kill every man I meet. In fact, I wish to kill very few.”

“You are very odd,” is Helga’s response. Then she looks at him again. “You thank my father for avoiding the war in the north. Are you doing the same?”

“My only concern for the war in the north is to safeguard the lives of Ruaidrí mac Domnall and Findláech mac Ruaidrí.”

“High King Ruaidrí is a good man,” Helga says, “though I’ve yet to meet his Heir. I can understand your concern for them both, and I wish you good fortune in your task, Godric. I don’t think the north of this isle would fare well if Muireb were to lose its rulers as the Norðreyjar did.”

Godric tilts his head. “Ruaidrí isn’t the High King of the North.”

Helga shrugs. “He might as well be. I’ll take these fools along with me. I’m glad I won’t be seeing you on a battlefield, Godric. I would hate to kill you.”

Godric grins at her. “I’m glad as well. I’d hate to see you be proven incapable of killing me before your kin.”

Helga laughs, bright and clear enough to reveal that she is still very much a child. “Farewell, Godric,” she says, and disappears by Síðian, taking the three bound prisoners with her.

 

*         *         *         *

 

Godric doesn’t camp anywhere near that valley, though it is late enough in the day that it’s almost a danger to choose otherwise. Instead, he walks over the rise and then on to the nearest copse of trees, following instinct and suspicion. There he discovers that Ehwaz is contentedly grazing on summer grass beneath the sheltering arm of a massive oak. “You know, you could have returned to me instead of making me come here to fetch you,” he tells the horse. Ehwaz swishes her tail before trotting over, nosing along his hair and then snorting at his bloodied leathers as she satisfies herself that he’s in one piece.

Normally, he prefers to do all the work for laying a camp for the night with his own hands, but he is already tired. He uses his wand to summon wood, to craft the right sort of column for the fire, and then to light it. While the first flames burn that will make the bed of hot coals that will last through the night, he searches the trees until he finds and fells a rabbit. That, too, he prepares with magic, wanting little more at this point than to eat and fall on his face for a night of rest.

Even with magic’s assistance, it takes time to ward his makeshift camp, to unsaddle his horse and tether her for the night, to unroll the bundle of leather and fur that makes up his bed, and prepare a spit for the rabbit. Ehwaz watches with placid interest as Godric strips off his clothes and subjects himself to a brief, magically conjured rain shower for a cleansing that never fails to be sarding _cold_. The leathers he wore that day he stretches out on the grass to air out. He can clean it with magic all he likes, but the scent of blood will linger if it is packed away too soon.

Finally, dressed in clean linen, Godric flops down in front of the campfire. Everything he needs to do to pass a quiet night in safety has been done, but he can’t relax. There is an impending feel of something approaching, a sense of danger, that will not fade.

He is blaming the day’s ambush for that ill feeling until he looks up from his contemplation of the flames and finds a man standing on the other side of his fire.

Godric has his wand out and pointed before he can even contemplate the act, but manages to keep his magic from bursting forth. His eyes are catching up to inform the battle panic that it may not be needed.

The man on the other side of the fire wears no armor or helm, and holds no weapon but a rough staff. He is also old, with the appearance of someone truly ancient. There is enough light left of the day to show that he has long grey hair, a patchy excuse of a beard, and the pale skin of one with native Briton blood. His brown eyes are clear and sharp, showing no signs of any infirmity of the mind.

The old man raises a gnarled, scraggly eyebrow. “You aim your wand, but do not use it?”

He makes himself breathe again. “The wards I placed are strong. You are either no threat at all, or so powerful that the wards are meaningless. Aside from your lack of manners in regards to _announcing your presence_ ,” Godric adds in a sour voice, “you’ve done me no wrong. Or should I hex you in retaliation for what you’ve done to my heart this evening?”

The old man laughs, a surprisingly rich sound. “I feel no need to be hexed this night.” He sits down on the other side of the fire without asking permission. Godric is about to protest this further lack of manners when he realizes the old man’s clothing is worse than the rags worn by the lowliest beggar. His robes are drab, torn, and laundered so much they are as grey as the old man’s hair. He does not wear boots, but open sandals that reveal weather-beaten feet and yellowing, cracked toenails.

Godric returns his wand to his sleeve. “Though it is summer in the north, the nights here can still turn chill. I’ve an extra cloak if you would like it.”

He is gazed at in what appears to be surprise, but there is too much shrewdness in the old man’s eyes for Godric to be certain. “What of yourself, then?”

“My bedroll secures my warmth well enough,” Godric replies, starting to suspect that this is no chance encounter with an old beggar who has roamed too far from Inbhir Nis. “And a cloak is easily replaced.” He decides not to wait for an answer, getting up long enough to retrieve the silken wool cloak from the pack lying on the rocks next to Ehwaz’s saddle and harness.

The old man unrolls the cloak and holds it uncomfortably close to the fire as he studies it. “A fine thing,” he mutters. “If I were to wear it, it will be as drab as the rest of me soon enough.”

“Then it will be drab,” Godric responds in a curt voice, sitting back down to remove the rabbit from the flames. He checks to be certain the meat has cooked before spearing the spit into the ground nearby so that it will cool enough to eat.

“I cannot recall the last time such was offered to me without expectation that I change to match it,” the old man says. “My thanks to you.”

“You are welcome.” Godric taps the cord hidden beneath his shirt, feeling the magic embedded in the goblin-crafted pendant chime under his finger. “Might I ask your name?”

“You might,” the old man says, wrapping the cloak around his bony shoulders. The fine weave and dark scarlet color give him a more regal presence than before. Godric thinks that if the man were to dress in fine clothing from head to heel, he would not gain prestige, but cause terror. Something about the old man’s dark eyes, that continuing watchful sharpness, has the strength of an age behind it.

“Of course, I might also ask your name, being that you have in your possession a hat that is not your own.”

Godric glances over at Stígandr’s hat, which is sitting on a rock and almost looks to be swaying in the mild breeze. “No, it’s not,” he agrees. “That belongs to my teacher; I’m watching over it for him at his request.”

“Of course. I simply did not expect to see it with another in a chance encounter in the wilds.”

“Lies,” Godric says flatly. “This is no chance encounter. I don’t know how you’ve found me, but you know exactly who I am. Speak plainly with me, old man: who are you?”

“At the moment, I am a messenger.” The old man plucks at the rearing griffon cloak pin before removing it and passing it back to Godric. “This is the gift of another and should remain with you.”

Godric nods in acceptance, though Queen Eilénóra would have forgiven him for its loss upon learning why. “What message do you bring?”

“I’m not so fond of being a messenger,” the man mutters as if Godric hadn’t spoken. “But my student told me she would cause every step I took upon the earth to feel as if I were stepping upon my own testiculis if I did not do as she bid me. As if I need to experience that curse twice in one lifetime.”

“If you are this intent upon avoiding all that is asked of you, I can see why your student might have wished to apply this curse!”

The old man stops and blinks at him. “I could, of course, leave without informing you of what was said.”

“You could!” Godric retorts. “At the speed in which you are passing this message along, I could ride to London and sort through the local gossip to learn whatever it is I need to know!”

“Ah, there is the temper. You should have such,” the old man says, pleased.

Godric bites back several more angry words and attempts to gain information a different way. “Who is this student of yours who wished to curse you by forcing you to feel the pain of walking upon your own beallucas?”

“That would be the Vǫlva Edda of Wicham,” the old man says blithely.  “She is quite fond of you, Godric.”

Godric feels himself go still, as if he is about to face yet another battle. “Grandmothers are often fond of their grandchildren.”

The old man peers at him in momentary confusion. “Are you older than you look?”

Godric sighs. “Great-grandmother,” he specifies. “Why does Edda of Wicham send Myrddin Wyllt to me as a messenger instead of doing so herself?”

“Oh, I volunteered.” Myrddin smiles, revealing yellowed teeth with no hint of rot. “I wished to meet the Guardian Fire of the South. It is not often one meets legends other than myself.”

Godric rears back in alarm. “I’m no legend!”

Myrddin pauses. “Hmm. Perhaps not yet? Sometimes time and I do not get on as we should.”

At this juncture, Godric has no idea if Myrddin is a bit broken, or if this entire encounter has been some odd test. If it’s the latter, he doesn’t prefer it. “I’ll give you half of this sarding rabbit if you tell me the whole of your message.”

“Bribery?” Myrddin looks pleased. “I do like that, and food is much preferable than coin. I agree to your terms, but we should sup before I speak. There will be no more rest for you this night once I have had my say.”

“When you speak that way, I find myself not wishing to eat at all,” Godric grumbles under his breath, but he knows better than to neglect supper. If things are dire enough that his great-grandmother would send an actual sarding _legend_ in the form of Myrddin Wyllt to seek out Godric, then he does not know when he will sit down for his next meal.

Godric splits the rabbit neatly in two with his knife, and they eat in silence. There is so little of Myrddin’s meal left when he is done that Godric wonders if the marrow was not enough, and the old man ate the small bones, as well.

“Much better. I have always found that bad news is easier to hear if one is well-fed,” Myrddin says.

“Just _tell_ me,” Godric requests in resignation. “If I’m not to sleep this night, I’d rather ride while I still have the moon to light my path.”

“Very well.” When Myrddin sits up, his shoulders go back and his chin rises. It’s as if his entire being changes. Godric shivers at the cold feeling that sears its way down his back; the flames of the fire swirl as if stirred by a nonexistent breeze.

This is Myrddin Wyllt in truth, not the old beggar man who first approached his fire. This is the strength of a magician who was born in the fourth century and is over five hundred years old. Myrddin has seen peace and war in vast measure, and his magic is as wild and untamable as the open sea.

“Guardian Fire of the South,” Myrddin intones, his voice like rolling thunder. “A great evil has been performed in the realm of England. As Somerset’s true lord and protector, it is your solemn duty to see this evil undone.”


	15. Alliances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Godric is a Lore Master who never forgets, and his allies always hold a special place in his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Largely unbeta'd so any mistakes are mine, but @norcumi, @jabberwockypie, @mrsstanley, and @sanerontheinside are awesome for cheering this on while it was in progress.
> 
> Extra-long and detailed chapter (Godric's fault) is posted for the Fundraisening, which is still ongoing. <3

Godric rides to Inbhir Nis as soon as he can saddle Ehwaz. The horse is confused by his sudden desire to ride at night, but grew used to her master wanting odd things in their first months together.

To his surprise, Myrddin accompanies him on a horse that seems to have arrived out of thin air. He decides it’s going to be easier not to question this instance of sudden horse, or Myrddin’s odd insistence that he will be accompanying Godric. If he questions Myrddin about everything the old man does, his head might ache for the rest of his life just from the difficulty of trying to get a simple answer.

He did believe that the old magician would simply wander off into obscurity again after his task of bearing that message was complete, but perhaps Edda asked more of Myrddin than Myrddin will admit to.

Or perhaps the old man is just sarding meddlesome. It would be a fair match for his reputation.

Fortunately for the timing of his arrival at dawn, Eochaid is one of the guards at the gate for the castle. He waves off the other guard’s concern as he identifies Godric, though they’re both curious as to Godric’s rough-garbed companion.

Word spreads quickly. By the time the horses are unsaddled and led away to the stable, the queen has roused herself, dressed, and meets with them in her private receiving chamber.

“It’s not Findláech or Ruaidrí who bring you here at such an early hour, is it?” Eilénóra asks in alarm.

“No,” Godric says, and Eilénóra embraces him in relief. “I’m sorry to have given rise to such fears with my arrival. I…” He hesitates. “I have coin enough to pay for it, but I need your help.”

Eilénóra listens, frowning, as Godric lists what he needs. “You hate silk.”

Godric grimaces his agreement. He still is not fond of silk after Wystan’s forced use of it when making a sham of Godric’s freedom, but he is to visit the English Court for the first time since 977, and he cannot do so in battered clothing and leathers. “It will be necessary to strike the right sort of tone. I have to return to Somerset, Eilénóra. I can’t wait any longer.”

The queen pales. “Godric. You are not yet eighteen.”

“I know, and that makes this so much more difficult.” Godric did not want to engage in these sorts of politics. He wanted to ride into Somerset on the nineteenth of Iunius in 981, slay his vile uncle, his uncle’s cousin, and be rid of all their foul soldiers. As a man of age to inherit, being denied such is cause enough to eliminate the fools breaking the King’s law. As a man who is a year too young to rightfully claim what is his, Godric needs the support of others—as many as possible.

“And who is this?” Eilénóra asks, turning her attention to Godric’s companion.

“Oh—forgive me for not announcing him sooner. Eilénóra Járnknésdottir of Éireann, Queen of Muireb, this is Myrddin ap Manawydan, son of Manawydan fab Llŷ, also called Myrddin Wyllt, _Bellum dux Magum, Defender ex Brittonic Insulis_.”

Eilénóra stares at Myrddin for a moment. Myrddin does not help anything by appearing to find the introductions dull. “Well, then. It is a fine thing to meet you, War Mage of Briton. You will be accompanying Lord Godric on his journey, yes?”

Myrddin stops his perusal of the tapestries on the walls to give her a baffled look. “Why?”

The queen narrows her eyes. “Because, War Mage, if such vileness has occurred in this man’s home that it has gained even your attention, is it not your _duty_ to be certain the difficulty is solved?”

“Of course it is!” Myrddin snaps. “Why else would I be here? It is simply not my job to solve every single problem of Briton for those who dwell here, else I would never have a moment’s peace at all!”

Godric glances up at the ceiling, asking the Maker for patience. “Eilénóra, I will handle this problem. If Myrddin Wyllt decides to act as a watchful bystander for the entire occasion, then so be it. If he decides to assist me, then I will deal with that, as well. If he decides to disappear into the nearest wood, that will also not surprise me.”

Myrddin eyes Godric in disdain. “I did not travel so far north merely to leave just as things become interesting.”

Eilénóra looks to be clenching her jaw. “If the Lord Godric is fine with your actions, then so am I. Godric, I will send servants to wake those who are of your House. If you are to begin your task, they should be ready to assist you.”

Godric bows his head. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

Eilénóra smiles and reaches up to cup his face with both hands. “Godric, I have watched you grow from a small child into a man, one I am glad to call my friend and ally. I need no thanks, for that privilege is thanks enough.”

The queen grants him the use of her private receiving chamber. Godric paces back and forth as he waits, though he looks up at one point to find that Myrddin has gone. He doubts the ancient magician is gone for good. He is too full of spite and fire to simply leave after admitting his interest.

Oriel is the first one to rush into the room and greets him by flinging herself into his arms. “Godric!”

Godric embraces her and breathes in the scent of roses that clings to her bound dark hair. “It is good to see you again,” he says as he releases her. “I’ve missed you in this castle on every occasion I had to visit, the last included.”

“Bad timing, I think,” Oriel says, stepping back to smooth her dress. “I’ve finished my apprenticeship with your great-grandmother!”

“I’m quite pleased for you, then,” Godric replies, smiling. “What did you finally allow her to teach you that was not healing?”

“Weather Magic.” Oriel seems happy, the first time he has seen her so bright-eyed in long years. She has not gained any height, but at nineteen years of age is a sweet-faced woman with a stern edge to her smile. “I think Edda was disappointed that I did not wish for more, but I enjoy the way my magic entangles itself with the weather. Oh, though Edda did not release me from my apprenticeship vows until I could properly duel, and claims I do well enough. What of you, Godric? Did Stígandr see your apprenticeship completed?” She reaches up and prods at his hat. “I see your teacher left his ragged hat in your company.”

Godric is saved from having to admit that he isn’t certain of his Mastery by Torold’s arrival. He is shorter than Godric, despite being twenty-one years of age and fully grown. His hair has lightened to a straw-like blond that curls slightly, despite the guardsman’s helm attempting to pin it down. “Lord Godric!” Torold clasps Godric’s arm, a wide grin on his face. “It isn’t just rumor at all, is it? We’re to return home!”

“But not in the sort of circumstances that will make the return easy,” Godric cautions him. “Congratulations on attaining your full title as a trained guardsman, Torold.”

“Thank you. Even if our return is not easy, I think myself well prepared for it,” Torold replies.

Yon has grown to his full height with his eighteenth year, but his limbs have forgotten to follow along, so he still appears much the gangly youth. Despite that, he is training as a non-magical healer, but also apprenticed under the bowyer for Inbhir Nis to learn to make bows. He says it’s only the beginning, as to make a true bow, he must apprentice under an English or Welsh bowyer. Torold claims Yon has the best aim of any archer in the north, which causes Yon to blush.

Nineteen-year-old Emma and sixteen-year-old Selova both served apprenticeships under the local armorer, though Emma readily admits that Selova is far better at it. Selova says that Emma might not be the best armorer, but she is better with a sword and knives than any of them. “Except you, Godric,” Selova stammers, staring at the spathe that is strapped to his side.

“I’m not bloodied, she means,” Emma says, patting Selova’s arm. “But Mochán has always claimed I’m decent enough to survive.”

Tomas, Sampson, and Udo arrive together, all of them muscled and healthy from life in the north. Like Torold, they trained as guardsmen, though Sampson has also learned fletching, Udo has had a rotating apprenticeship with the local apothecaries, and Tomas has found an interest in kitchen work—specifically bottling.

It doesn’t surprise Godric that they’ve all trained for aspects of defence and war. They spent too many years trapped in privation. The desire to defend themselves, to keep others from suffering that fate, burns in their eyes.

Constance, who has been working happily in Inbhir Nis almost since their arrival, visits with Nota. Both of them have grown to be lovely, though there are hints of stress lines on Nota’s dear face that speak of her troubles in overcoming the terror of their childhood. They are both happy in their positions, and Godric is not much surprised to hear that they have no wish to return to Griffon’s Door. They will assist, if they can, but they will not leave Muireb.

“You know I blame you not at all,” Godric says gently.

“But I blame myself,” Nota murmurs. “I feel as if I am abandoning you all by not taking up arms to reclaim what rightfully belongs to Grypusdor.”

“Nonsense,” Oriel insists. “We’re going because Griffon’s Door is our _home_ , Nota. This one is now yours, and there is no shame in that.”

Griselda, Ioetta, Aldous, Honora, Pavia, and Bevis come to see Godric, and he finds himself marveling over how much they’ve grown just from their parting at the Winter Solstice. They are all too young to be part of the retinue Godric finds himself building, but he is glad they will be safe. He’d much rather they finish growing up than be forced into battle against Wystan’s crude army.

Godric does not expect Queen Eilénóra to join them. “You—there is a war in the north. You’re expected to be _here_ ,” he tries to protest.

Eilénóra just seems amused. “I was Norræn before I married and became Gaeil, Godric. The castle steward is quite versed in what to do in my absence. Right now, you need the strength my presence will lend you if you‘re to gather those you will need to overcome what may await you in Somerset.”

At least he does expect that Eilénóra will grant him more clothing than what he asked for. He thinks of the minimal necessity, while she sees the greater possibilities, and insists that he must look and dress the part of a young lord ready to claim an eorldom at _all times_ , even if they ride into battle.

“It seems an unnecessary expenditure at the moment,” Godric says, though he is careful to make light with his words so it does not sound like a complaint.

“It is not only the English of Æthelred’s Wessex Court you will visit, Godric. I would see you capable of honoring each ruler whose gaze you meet while dressed in finery that has not yet been seen by those we visited previous.” Eilénóra tilts her head as she regards him while he frowns at the mirror. The new silk tunic is too tight across his shoulders; if he needs to swing a blade, the seams will rip and tear. He pulls it off and informs the tailor, who scowls and asks Godric to stand as if he is about to swing his sword. “You’ve grown,” she says softly.

“I’m starting to suspect I will outgrow my father, and he was tall by English standards,” Godric agrees after the tailor departs. They can’t rely on a single crafter, not when they must be in Somerset before the winter. Eilénóra has put the castle’s entire staff of magical tailors and weavers to work. “I know that you still will not take coin from me for what I will wear when we depart this castle, but you cannot do the same for the others of Griffon’s Door,” he says as he puts his favored linen shirt back on. He suspects the only reason it is also not too tight across the shoulders is the gentle stretching of cloth as he gained height. “It must be my coin that supplies them.”

Eilénóra purses her lips. “My people would see it as my kingdom sponsoring a rightful eorl, one who has been a proven ally to Muireb. The English nobility would see…bribery, then?”

“They would choose to believe me impoverished and incapable of providing for the men and women who would be under my protection as Magical Eorl of Griffon’s Door and Somerset, or so weak that I hide behind another’s throne.”

“They would certainly be fools to believe you weak,” Eilénóra murmurs. “Your vault is not yet yours as long as your foul uncle still lives. Do you have coin enough to provide both for the clothing your people will need, as well as the cost of the journey south?”

Godric thinks of what Edda gave to him each year of his apprenticeship and nods. “I’ve hardly needed to touch the stipend that my great-grandmother provided. I could hire an army if I wished.”

“You may need to,” Eilénóra says. “The kingdoms of the north may not wish to assist you based on word and faith alone. I would bargain well, were I you.”

Before he can leave the room, the tailor returns in a foul mood. “That hat!” she barks. “We despair of that hat, and it will be replaced!”

Godric scowls. “This is the hat of Stígandr of Katanes, Wanderer of the North, and you will _not_ be replacing it.” He never thought he would be so defensive of a hat, but this woman’s gall is an affront to his teacher.

The tailor wilts in place, but then lifts her chin. “I see. Then will you allow us to cleanse it and mend it so that it seems as new again? We will take nothing from it and make no alterations beyond those needed for repair.”

Godric thinks on it, nods, and surrenders the hat. “If you do not do as you pledge, it isn’t me you will need concern yourself with.”

“I realize that, yes,” the tailor mutters, departing while glowering at the hat she holds.

“You could have appeased her simply by not wearing it in a royal Court,” Eilénóra points out with a smile.

“No.” Godric tries to shake off the odd feeling that crawls along his skin. “Stígandr entrusted it to me for a reason, and a hat is meant to be worn. I don’t know what other purpose it might serve, but for now, it saves me from the need to wear a coronet.”

Oriel finds him sitting on the castle’s battlements after nightfall, resuming an old and familiar habit. “My thanks to you for the gown, Lord Godric,” she says in a formal tone.

Godric rolls his eyes. “There will be more aside from that, so it would be a kindness if you would cease being so formal now.”

“I can’t do that. You are standing up to take back Griffon’s Door, Godric, and though we are friends, the act once again places me in the position of servant to your Lordship.”

Godric sighs and nods. “At least sit with me, then.”

Oriel climbs the brick next to him and sits in the gap between the stone, glancing up at Godric’s perch atop the column. “I wished to tell you in private, as I feel cautious after Torold’s poor reaction to my words.”

He realizes Oriel is speaking of more than just thanks for a gown, or a necessary return to ill-fitting formality. “What happened? I did notice that you and Torold no longer stand close together in a room.”

Oriel bites her lip. “I renounced our faith, Godric. I have chosen the ways of the Norse.”

Godric starts in surprise, the sensation feeling like a bite to his bones. “Oh.”

“Are you disappointed in me?”

“I would need to judge a great many people for not following the Almighty if I chose now to find other faiths offensive,” Godric replies, thinking on it. “I suppose I would like to hear your reasons—as your friend, not your lord.”

“As your friend?” Oriel sighs, turning her head to look up at the stars. “I prayed every night that we would be rescued from your uncle’s treachery. Every night, Godric, I placed all of my faith in the God I was raised to follow, believing with all my heart that He would release us from our bondage, even if that release was death. That never happened.”

“What if your release from bondage was the very planning that led us to Inbhir Nis?” Godric asks. “Would that not mean your prayers were answered?”

“I thought on that, as well,” Oriel admits. “You saved us, Godric, but you used tools that the Christians often say are evil. You used a gift of a stone from the Green Folk. You led us through a Sacred Door. You bargained with those who are not of this earth for our safety, and the latter would be seen as especially treacherous to many. I just—I do not consider the Almighty to be an enemy, but the ways of his followers I find I can no longer abide. When I traveled with Edda during my apprenticeship, the Norse ways brought me comfort in a way that I had not felt in a long time. Are you disappointed in me?”

“It was hard to hold on to my faith, too,” Godric tells her, and Oriel glances at him in shock.

“You? But you are—you are perhaps one of the most devout men I have ever met, including those of the priesthood!”

“Everyone has times of doubt,” Godric says. “No, I am not disappointed. You said yourself that you do not count our Maker as your enemy, and I truly believe that He would understand your reasons for wishing to no longer step foot in a church.” He watches the way her hands are plucking at the embroidery of her gown. “Torold felt differently?”

Oriel nods. “I didn’t want to marry him, but I thought well enough of Torold that I believed he would be kind when I told him that our faiths were no longer the same. He has apologized for the angry words he spoke to me, and we are friends again, but it—that moment was so painful, Godric. I do not know if my heart will ever accept another, not when I have already lost one love to war and another to anger.”

“If anyone in Griffon’s Door ever says an unkind word to you of your faith, feel free to use your wand to cause them to regret their rudeness.” Godric considers it, choosing not to speak of Oriel’s desire never to court another. Whatever words he could say, she has likely already thought of herself. “Better still, tell Meraud that there are those in our home who malign the ways of her mother. She would be pleased to educate them.”

Oriel stifles a laugh. “She would educate them with an iron pan, Godric.”

“It would be effective teaching then, wouldn’t it?”

This time she allows herself the laugh, though the winds at this height quickly carry it away. “You’ve changed,” Oriel says. “Not in height,” she adds dryly. “That much is obvious. I mean that you…you carry yourself as if you feel more at ease in your own skin.”

Godric glances down at his wand, secured to his forearm with sturdy leather. “Some days, yes.”

 “I do wonder what Wystan did with those false wands of beech and ash we left behind. I found myself thinking of them often—of all wands, really. I almost contemplated becoming a wandmaker just for the pleasure of something entirely new.” Oriel smiles. “When Edda realized I was serious in my desire to learn the faith of the Norse, she began teaching me their stories. When I heard the tale of Óðinn’s trial, I thought of your wand.”

“Because Woden hung himself upside down from an ash tree in self-sacrifice in order to be granted the knowledge of all magic,” Godric says. “Of course, ash also often finds itself in the hands of the stubborn.”

“As if hanging yourself from a tree does not count as stubborn,” Oriel mutters, rolling her eyes. “What I mean to say is that I believe your wand a sign that you were always meant to be apprenticed to the Wanderer of the North.”

“Oh?” Godric nudges her shoulder with his booted foot. “Then what does your beech wand mean for you?”

“Beech works best in the hand of one whose life is rich in experience.” Oriel frowns. “That does not mean the experiences are kind. Oh, and Edda’s staff is carved from the thick branch of a beech tree. The carvings on it are the same as those on my wand. I took it to mean I was always to be her apprentice, as well.”

“It does seem to be a rather obvious portent,” Godric says. “I still have never decided if Stígandr is Woden, and Stígandr has never seen fit to clearly say.”

Oriel wriggles her shoulder until Godric takes heed and stops prodding her with his boot. “Would it matter if he is?”

Godric shakes his head. “No. Whether he is an aged man or a Norse deity doesn’t matter. His teachings are the most important, especially as we are all about to rely on those teachings in order to regain our home.”

 

*         *         *         *

 

When they depart from Inbhir Nis on the last day of Iunius, there are sixteen riders: nine from Griffon’s Door, six from Muireb, and Myrddin. Eilénóra travels with her men from her personal guard—older, blooded warriors named Uilleam mac Domhnall, Torcuil mac Micheil, and Niall mac Ruadh. Her fourth companion is Ninian mac Ailpein, second to Weapons Master Mochán Oddrsdottir. Waðsige’s last apprentice, a woman from the Isle of Mann, Moirrey of Duboglassio, insists upon joining them so that they have a magical Healer in their company.

All are alarmed by Godric’s first choice of attempted alliance except Myrddin.

“We are in a midst of a war against the Orkney Eorldom,” Eilénóra protests.

“No. Muireb is involved in a war with Skuli Thorfinnsson, who is also warring against two of his brothers. I am not at war with anyone of the Orkney Eorldom. Aside from that, there is the truth that Hlodvir Thorfinnsson has not joined in the conflict being fought in Gallaibh.”

“You mean to sail to his island. To see the Skullsplitter’s youngest son.” Emma ponders that while the others consider the dubious wisdom of seeking allies among the Norse. “Better a Thorfinnsson than Alba, I suppose.”

Torold is the first to be firm in his agreement with Godric. “We will need a boat.”

Godric tries not to blanch and reveal how much he does not like boats, but Torold is correct. They cannot travel to Sand-øy by way of Caithness, not when they might have to fight their way from its southern border all the way to the northern tip of Briton.

The sea is rough, worse than Godric and Stígandr’s visit to the Kingdom of the Isles last summer. Godric clings to Ehwaz and hopes he isn’t going to be ill.

Myrddin wanders over to him. Godric is annoyed to notice that Myrddin doesn’t have a single drop of water upon him, though Godric is soaked to the skin from the crashing waves. “Do not fight the sea’s rise and fall,” Myrddin says. “Think of it as the gentle rocking of a mother with her child. Flow with it, and you will find your ease.”

Those are the first words Myrddin has spoken to him since he introduced the old man to Muireb’s queen. Godric makes himself stop gritting his teeth, loosens his limbs, and tries to do as Myrddin instructs.

It helps almost at once. Godric sighs in relief. He will likely never be fond of a boat traversing the sea, but it is a blessing to no longer feel ill.

Myrddin nods in approval. “I see why Stígandr is fond of you. You learn quickly and well.”

“I’ve had little choice in that,” Godric says, trying to wipe the stinging, salty water from his face. “Your words are a lesson nested in another lesson, but I’m not certain I understand it.”

“You will, or you will not,” is Myrddin’s cryptic response before he walks away. Godric is glad that Stígandr is also fond of being difficult to fathom, else he would be ready to strangle a centuries-old war mage.

Guards at the beach cry out their arrival at Sand-øy. Godric hops from the _bogr_ of the boat into the water and sloshes his way towards the dry bank, calling out those on the beach in Norræn Tal. “I come here to seek an audience with Hlodvir the Stalwart Sword, lord of these lands.”

The armored woman who approaches him studies him with a narrow-eyed gaze. “You are as tall as we, but you are not Norse. Who are you to seek an audience with Hlodvir Thorfinnsson?”

“I am the Eorl Godric of Griffon’s Door, Lord of Somerset in the Kingdom of England.” Godric tries not to feel awkward while speaking of titles he is still attempting to reclaim. “My friend and ally in the north is Stígandr of Katanes, who is known to all of the Skullsplitter’s sons. I am close kin to the Vǫlva Edda of Wicham. The Stalwart Sword’s brother, the Jarl Arnfinn Thorfinnsson, welcomed me to the Norðreyjar once before. It is my belief that his younger brother will grant me that same honor.”

“I am Fríða Finnrsdóttir, and my blade belongs to Hlodvir Thorfinnsson.” Fríða removes her helm and gestures to a child nearby, one of many who have gathered to look at the newly arrived boat. “Go on to the lord’s hall, Halli. Let the others know that we have guests.” She turns back to Godric. “I will let you announce your business to Hlodvir Thorfinnsson. I only ask that you do not bring war to this isle.”

“There is plenty enough of that in Katanes,” Godric replies. “No, I do not bring war here, Fríða Finnrsdóttir, but I am likely going home to wage one.”

Fríða gives him an appraising look. “If your war is in the south, you have sailed in the wrong direction.”

Godric grins. “My teacher would say that I have traveled the wrong way in order to travel the _correct_ way.”

Fríða makes a sour face. “Oh, you have definitely spent too much time in the Wanderer’s company. Go and retrieve your people, Godric of Griffon’s Door. I and my guard will escort you to my lord’s Þinghöll in peace. You will hear no one cry for hólmganga.”

Godric clasps her arm when she holds it out. “Thank you.”

“All right, I will grant you this: we are not yet dead,” Yon says after they are all standing on the beach.

“Oh, there is still ample opportunity for that. Bear your weapons openly, but no naked blades. To be armed is to show that you are strong. To draw a sword is to issue a challenge,” Godric tells them, and Eilénóra nods her approval.

Fríða does as she vowed. They walk from the beach and its line of carved Norse sailing ships to the village of Odinswic. Along the way, they are introduced to the others who fight with her, including her brother. Hugleikr Finnrsson’s height is remarkable in that he is short, like Godric’s countrymen in the south, but makes up for his lack by being as broad and strong as an armored ox. Both siblings have the gaze of those who have seen many battles.

The people of this village are tall and proud, and everyone shows signs of prosperity. Hlodvir Thorfinnsson’s Þinghöll is as large as the one the Jarl Arnfinn held in Caithness. Its size is enhanced by many carvings of Norse design on the exterior walls, the doors, and even the edges of the roof.

The inside of the hall is lit by many torches that fill the room with the scent of burning pine and tar. The light glitters off of the armor that Godric, Yon, Torold, Emma, Tomas, Sampson, Udo, and the men of Eilénóra’s personal guard chose to wear. It also draws attention to the coronet that Eilénóra wears, and the sight of it sets off a low murmur of curious voices within the lord’s hall.

Godric smiles when he notices that Helga is standing with others near the lord’s chair. She is giving him such a vexed look that it eases his heart. If he was truly in danger, she would warn him with her eyes.

Hlodvir Thorfinnsson has brown hair and pale brown eyes, a keen gaze, and the presence of a warrior, but he also looks to have aged a decade since Godric met him last. Beside him sits his wife, the Princess Eithne ingen Diarmait Mac Cearbhall, House Dál Birn, the Galdramaður—the one called the Sorceress. Her hair is the same color as Helga’s, but her eyes are green rather than blue, and her features lean towards stern allure rather than her daughter’s blooming beauty.

Sigurd is not present, but Helga’s two sisters, Gerleota and Svanlaug, stand behind their mother. He notes the spacing between Helga and her sisters and understands that Helga is now considered to be a magician before she is recognized as Hlodvir’s daughter. The sense of magic he feels concentrated in that part of the hall proves him correct; she stands with this household’s other magicians.

Godric halts at the appropriate distance from the lord and lady’s chairs and bows. “My Lord Hlodvir, Princess Eithne—it is a pleasure to greet you again.”

“Is it, Lord Godric?” Hlodvir is eying their armor and their weapons. “You look as if you come here dressed for war.”

“We are dressed for war, but it is not war meant for this village or this island,” Godric says in reassurance. Some of the tension that thickened the air in the hall eases with his words, but not all of it. He does not blame them for their caution, not when they have so recently seen treachery. “I have come to ask the Stalwart Sword if he honors the words of the dead.”

The Sorceress’s eyebrows raise a polite fraction. “That depends upon the nature of the words, and who once spoke them, Lord Godric.” Godric inclines his head again in acknowledgement and respect. “Introduce those who have accompanied you. We are aware that the Wanderer is in Katanes. To be honest, we thought you would be in his company.”

“Stígandr must concern himself with his kin in Katanes for now,” Godric explains. “As for those with me, I would introduce Eilénóra of Éireann, Queen of Muireb, daughter of Járnkné Sigurdsson of Luimneach, who travels with her personal guard and a Healer of Muireb.”

“We are familiar with one another.” Hlodvir looks as if he is trying not to grimace. “What does Muireb’s presence in my hall mean for my people?”

Eilénóra dips her head after exchanging slight smiles with the Princess Eithne that are full of hidden meaning. “I am not here on behalf of Muireb. I travel with Lord Godric to lend strength to his cause.”

“What cause is this?” Hlodvir asks.

“The reclamation of my home and lands,” Godric answers him. “This is Oriel Sevestresdottir, Master Magician of Givelcestre, a good friend and one who serves my House. With me are the sons and daughters of my people who fled north to seek shelter in Inbhir Nis, and who are now a part of the Oaken Staff—the Guard of Griffon’s Door. And this…” Godric glances at Myrddin, who merely rolls his eyes. “This is Myrddin ap Manawydan, son of Manawydan fab Llŷ, who is also called The Wyllt. He is Briton’s last mage of war, the lone survivor of the Battle at Hadrian’s Wall, and for some reason, he has decided to join me as I seek to regain my home.”

It is not just Hlodvir and Eithne who stare at Myrddin, but Hlodvir’s entire household. Even Helga looks surprised by Myrddin’s presence, and she has spent so much time in a sacred grove that her younger sisters are now far older.

“Then your cause must be just, and the need dire,” Eithne says in a grave voice.

Hlodvir nods his agreement. “What words of the dead do you speak of, Godric?”

“When I first visited the Norðreyjar in Stígandr of Katanes’s company, Jarl Arnfinn offered to bargain with me for assistance when it came time to reclaim my home from my usurping uncle.”

Godric draws in a breath. “I am not fool enough to believe that only myself and those who stand with me now are capable of defeating whatever army Wystan Grypusdor has amassed in my absence. I need those who are willing to stand with me, to bloody swords or wands at my side as I reclaim what is mine. I come to ask if you will act in your lost brother’s stead.”

Hlodvir leans back in his chair. “I see. Though I would honor my brother’s pledge, I fear I cannot, Lord Godric. With my brothers fighting amongst themselves for the right to rule the Norðreyjar and Katanes, there is strife in all of the north. If any of my brothers turned their armies towards this isle, I would need my warriors here to act in our defence.”

 _Not_ all _my warriors_ , Godric thinks, recognizing the distinction. “I do not wish to make off with the whole of your army, Lord Hlodvir. A large number of warriors often means there is simply more blood to spill upon the ground. I know how to position soldiers so that they will succeed while their enemies falter. I would pay gold coin to any of your men who would volunteer to join us, so that they will fight honorably for their families and your House.”

Hlodvir gazes at Godric before nodding. “We will discuss this, Lord Godric. It would please me if you and those of your household would pass the time waiting in the judgement hall. I trust you recall where it is.”

Godric bows again. “I do indeed. Thank you for your time and consideration, Lord Hlodvir.”

The hús löggjafans has a great stone pit in the center of the main room, with a well built, stone-guarded hole in the roof to allow the smoke to escape. Godric watches the others sit down before the fire or in padded chairs, but he can’t do the same. He paces the length of the room, trying not to frown as he thinks on what is needed, but also on what must be avoided.

“Was this trip to the north a waste of time?” Udo finally asks, huddling as close to the fire as he dares without scorching his hands. The others say he has never adjusted to the cold of the north.

“Not at all,” Eilénóra says. “If Hlodvir did not want this to happen, he would have sent us away at once.”

“Is that why you gifted my father with your prisoners?” Helga asks in annoyance.

Godric turns around to find that she has appeared in the room, though he heard no signs of Síðian. Stígandr is still attempting to teach him to magically move in silence, but it is a slow lesson. “No, not at all,” Godric answers her, ignoring the fact that the others are staring at Helga—or in the case of Torold and Emma, halting in the midst of drawing their swords. “I didn’t receive word that things had turned truly dire in Griffon’s Door until after we spoke that day.”

“It was a well-timed bribe, then. Father is inclined to help you because you thought of him before any others, especially when you could have gifted your prisoners to Skuli in a bid to have him stay his sword were he to encounter those of Muireb in battle.”

“As if that sort of bribe ever works when everyone is seeking blood,” Godric says, irritated but not certain why. “Those of Griffon’s Door and Muireb—this is Helga Hlodvirsdóttir, who is training to be vǫlva like my great-grandmother, the Vǫlva Edda of Wicham.” He then introduces all of the others by name. The politics in Hlodvir’s hall did not allow for it, but he knows Helga appreciates the gesture.

Helga gives the others a graceful bow. “It is a pleasure to meet my friend’s sworn allies. You are truly going south to war against your uncle?”

“I am. I’ve been granted no choice.” Godric hesitates, glancing at Myrddin, who is in the midst of retrieving a hot coal from the fire with his bare hands. Excellent; he travels in the company of a mad man. “My uncle has created a Horcrux with a living man of Griffon’s Door, one who is meant to be under my protection. Wystan has already cast foul blood magic that enspelled the whole of southern England into believing a falsehood. To also create a Horcrux…if he has done both of these things, he could bring even greater harm than any of us anticipated. He must be stopped now.”

Helga frowns. “I do not know the word Horcrux.”

“A soul jar,” Godric replies, and Helga’s eyes widen.

“Then it is not only an army that concerns you. If you linger in the north, your uncle could craft more soul jars, making him more difficult to deal with.” Helga purses her lips. “I am going with you.”

Godric rubs his eyes and then pinches the bridge of his nose. “Your father would slay me.”

Helga scowls at him. “It is no longer my father’s decision, nor my mother’s. I may not have as many years as you, but I will soon be vǫlva in truth, and my path is my own, my _decisions_ my own! If I help an English _idiot_ and cleanse the south of the isle of Briton of foulness, then that is my choice!”

“Er…” Godric instinctively leans back. “Your magic shines in the air, Helga.”

Helga glances down at her hands, which are trailing gentle wisps of true gold. “Oh. My apologies for that. I did not mean to present as a threat to you.”

“You didn’t,” Godric lies. He has only ever seen the flame of his own magic once before, and it took true rage and grief to create that scarlet fire. Helga has called forth the shine of her magic just from a minor bit of temper. “There is nothing I could say that would sway you to remain and complete your apprenticeship in safety, so I do not need to concern myself with another friend’s well-being, is there?”

Helga’s flare of temper vanishes. “Ah. Concern, not—truly, I apologize, Godric. And no, there is nothing you could say to sway me, especially as my own teacher will be accompanying us.”

“Edda is not even here,” Godric points out, but then takes in the expression on Helga’s face. His great-grandmother proved long ago that she has no difficulty in traveling wherever she wishes to upon the island. “She told you.”

Helga smiles. “You seem so surprised by this. We are vǫlva, Godric. We have our duty to our home just as you have a duty to yours. Vǫlva consider the whole of Briton and its many isles to be under our protection.”

“Wait. Are we to have an army of vǫlva joining us?” Selova asks in disbelief.

Helga grins at her. “It takes very few vǫlva to create the might of an army. Two of us will do, I think.”

Godric holds out his hand. Helga grips his arm, though she has to reach up to do so. “Thank you.”

“You’re most welcome,” Helga replies, still smiling. “Of course, this does mean that I expect you to present yourself and your wand if my father’s house needs such once your own house is cleansed of foulness.”

Godric smiles back. “As long as your father’s argument is not with the house of Ruaidrí mac Domnall, then I would be happy to fight with you to defend your father’s hall.”

Hlodvir Thorfinnsson gives Helga a disapproving look when he notices her standing with Godric’s people upon their return. “You are certain, daughter?”

Helga gives her father and lord the same bow she offered those of Griffon’s Door, though this one is accompanied by a confident smile. “I am, Father. My teachers approve, and I have made my decision.”

“Very well.” Hlodvir looks at Godric, his face set in solemn lines. “My daughter’s will is her own, and she is in the care of her teachers…but for her to depart with you means that _you_ are to care for her, as well.”

Godric nods. “I call your daughter my friend. I doubt she will require my protection, but she has it nonetheless.” Behind him, Helga lets out a quiet, derisive snort. “Griffon’s Door is grateful that the vǫlva of the north seek to assist us.”

“They do, yes.” Hlodvir seems to sigh. “You are an honorable man, Godric Grypusdor. While I cannot fight a war at your side, there are those of my house who desire to join you. They are skilled in war, blooded in battle, and know to negotiate well for the cost of their blade.”

The Princess Eithne gestures, and eight Norse men and women step forward. Godric is pleased to see Fríða and Hugleikr Finnrsson among them. “Until my uncle is vanquished and Griffon’s Door is declared by me to be free of his vileness, your swords would belong to me, and will fight under my banner. Is that acceptable to you?” Godric asks, beyond grateful that Stígandr taught him of these things. His countrymen would do so because they are English, but the Norse ways require that he seek their pledge, temporary though it is.

Fríða seems exceptionally pleased. “I am Fríða Finnrsdóttir, and I do so understand this and pledge myself to your banner until your war is done.”

Her brother speaks next. “I am Hugleikr Finnrsson, and I pledge myself to your banner until your war is done.”

A very tall, weathered Norseman inclines his head. “I am Alfarrin of the Mark. I pledge myself to your banner until your war is done.” Godric thinks of how his father’s last battle is called the Battle of the Mark and decides Alfarrin’s presence is all but mandated by the Almighty.

The next man is bronze-skinned and black-haired like the southern Moors. “I am Baldvin Gapisson, and I pledge myself to your banner until your war is done.”

“I am Sigrún Hakisdóttir,” the next warrior says. They have red hair, but Godric studies them and thinks that while they say they are the daughter of Haki, they prefer not to be female. “You have my blade and my pledge until your war is done.”

“I am Hafr Hrīmnirsson.” This warrior is as tall as Alfarrin and as broad as Hugleikr, granting him the size of a Brittonic cave troll, though not a troll’s appearance. “I pledge my blade to you until your war is done.”

The last two are twins so similar in appearance that only their difference in eye color sets them apart. “I am Iuar,” the man with blue eyes and near-white braids says.

“I am Iwan,” the other says, his black eyes at striking odds with his pale skin and hair. “We are the sons of Jóalfr, and we pledge our swords to your banner until your war is done.”

Godric nods. Eight warriors of the Norse are not an army, but the reason for their might is that they often _fight_ as one. “I accept your pledge, and will be glad of your service.” He meets the eye of each of the eight soldiers in turn before returning his gaze to Hlodvir. “Thank you.”

Hlodvir grants him a faint smile. “See to their well-being off the battlefield and lead them to a warrior’s glory upon it, and there will always be peace between us.”

 

*         *         *         *

 

They leave Sand-øy the next morning on fifth Iulius. It requires only one extra boat of Norse construction to hold them all, as none of the warriors have horses. Helga confesses in a low voice that none of them even know how to ride, as horses have not been necessary on their island. Godric tells her that they will all have to learn. Even if Myrddin is kind enough to open one of Edda’s short paths for them to hasten their travel to England, the journey overland to Somerset and Griffon’s Door would take too long on foot. He does not want Wystan to have that much time to plan a defence. Bad enough that he cannot sail around Briton, land at Bristol in the west, and take Griffon’s Door by surprise.

“Why not?” Helga asks, frowning. “If your uncle was allowed to rule your home by treachery, why can you not respond in similar fashion, with good cause behind you?”

Godric sighs. “We must go to London before all else, so that I may announce my intentions. Sarding politics.”

“Your English politics are stupid.”

Godric doesn’t argue with Helga. He agrees with her. Instead, he endures the sea journey. It’s tempting to kiss the ground when they step out of the boats and drag them to the shore, but he does not need to display weakness before his new allies—nor does he wish for a mouthful of sand.

Everyone sleeps on Muireb’s shores that evening. Godric takes his turn at watch as the skies clear after midnight, gazing up at the stars as he enjoys the familiarity of the isle’s magic beneath his feet. There are stories for each of these stars that he grew up knowing, and others he learned from Stígandr. Baldvin Gapisson, who shares that watch with him, tells Godric of the Moorish tales associated with the stars, including a great deal of navigational information and means of travel by the stars that Godric can’t fathom at all. When he confesses that Baldvin speaks of things he is incapable of learning, the man laughs.

“Incapable, or is this a refusal to learn?” Baldvin asks, passing Godric an infusion of summer herbs after the fire has warmed it well.

“I know that the stars are balls of fire, as those of the Caliphates do, even if my countrymen are…sometimes lacking in that knowledge,” Godric says, stirring the drink with his boot knife to be certain the infusion leaches all of the sweetness from the added bit of honeycomb.  “Everything you’ve told me, I will not forget, but that does not mean I can apply it.”

“Fair enough,” Baldvin says, amused. “Tell me _your_ tales of the stars, then.” Godric does so, making it one of the more pleasant night watches he has ever sat through.

The next morning, he bathes his face in cold saltwater from the sea to help rouse himself and then joins the others at the fire for breakfast. “We cannot ask most kingdoms of the north for assistance, as too many are bound to Alba.”

“What is the difficulty with Alba?” Hafr wishes to know.

“I turned the king of Alba’s army back several weeks ago from crossing into Muireb,” Godric replies, rolling his eyes. “I imagine he is still sore over the matter. And…” It isn’t necessarily a wise thing to admit, but Godric has to give these men and women his trust, so they will grant it in return. “And I do not trust him. I never have. I believe that if he thought betrayal the best way to gain more land and power, he would do so at once and ask the Almighty’s forgiveness later.”

“Then we’ll have no dealings with Cináed of Alba,” Iwan says firmly. “What of the southern kingdoms that separate the north from England?”

“And the Kingdom of the Isles?” Iuar asks.

“The Kingdom of the Isles is dealing with its own troubles as they fend off too many eager raids from the isle of Éireann.” Godric scrubs at his face, feeling bristle beneath his palms. He dislikes hair upon his face, and will be removing it at the first granted opportunity even if he has to use his sarding wand to do so. “Strathclyde, the Kingdom of Cumbria, is a possibility. I’ve always been on good terms with their king. Galloway…” He thinks on it. “I see no harm in asking those who dwell there, but I have never met those who rule that land.”

“You will,” Myrddin says in an absent voice, busy prodding at the remains of his morning meal. “They regard the Guardian Fire of the South with fondness.”

Hugleikr looks up from sharpening his boot knife. “Guardian Fire of the South? Who is that?”

Emma grins at Godric, who huffs out an annoyed sigh. “That would be our Lord Godric, Hugleikr.”

“That is quite the name.” Fríða eyes him speculatively. “Especially for one so young. How did you earn it?”

“He saved our lives,” Oriel says in a quiet voice. “He took all of us children of Griffon’s Door through one of the Sacred Doors, and those who live beneath the hill gave him that name.”

Everyone of Muireb but for the queen, the youngest of those from Griffon’s Door, and all the Norræn stare at him. “Friend Godric, if you had told Lord Hlodvir of this on the day you asked for his aid, most of the warriors of Sand-øy would have pledged their blades to you,” Baldvin says in astonishment.

Godric shrugs. “It’s only a name.”

“A name given to you by those of the underhill, those who _know_ of what will be!” Helga spits indignantly.

“I would rather it be earned in truth, not granted by beings whose names I do not even know,” Godric retorts. “When my uncle is dead and this war is done, I will accept that title as my own without protest, but I have not yet proven to be worthy of it!”

Helga blinks at him. Then she reaches over and swats Godric on the back of the head, eerily similar to the way Leffeda had once done. “You are a handsome young man, Lord Godric, but you have very foolish notions of what you have and have not earned.”

Godric leans away from her, rubbing the back of his head. “It is still my choice. Baldvin is correct when he says that such a bestowed title would draw many soldiers to my banner, but Helga—to have done so would leave your father and your hall unprotected. To do that _anywhere_ risks the same. I will not defend what is mine by leaving others to suffer.”

Helga bites her lip before nodding. “My apologies; you are correct. You plan well, and think further ahead than I. I will place my trust in your skill.”

“He is utterly vicious at Tafl,” Eilénóra says to break the deep silence that descends after Helga’s apology. “My husband can no longer defeat him.”

Iwan gazes at Godric in surprise. “You best High King Ruaidrí in that game of skill?” The Norræn all exchange looks, and when they face him again, Godric sees a level of steadfastness in their eyes that had been missing before.

“High King Ruaidrí is known in the north for his great skill in the tactics of war,” Iwan says. “Whatever course you decide upon, we will follow.”

Godric looks to Eilénóra, but her eyes are full of laughter. No help there, then. “If Myrddin would grant us the assistance of his magic, we will speed our travel not to Cumbria, but the Kingdom of Galloway.”

Myrddin scowls. “What sort of assistance?”

“I know that you can walk other paths that shorten a journey,” Godric says, trying not to let impatience be heard in his voice. The old goat has to sarding well know what it is he asks for. “Time is important, especially as you are so concerned as to the evil that has befallen Somerset. Help us to move quickly across this isle. I could do so, but I cannot commit to so many acts of Síðian without exhausting myself. It is quite difficult to win a war if you are lying in a heap on the ground.”

Myrddin fishes his wand from his dirty robe and regards it as if surprised to find it there. It looks to be more twig than wand, with no carving done to it at all. The end of it does not come to a point, but separates into four pieces, like the nubs of new branches. “Do you want to do so right now?”

Godric glares at Myrddin. “I would see us ready for travel before you send us off without horses or belongings!”

Myrddin smiles. “Of course. How silly of me to forget.”

“Goat,” Godric mutters under his breath. He isn’t yet certain if he likes Myrddin or loathes him, but he certainly understands why his great-grandmother would resort to cursing him to walk on his own bollocks.

While they’re packing up from their night spent above the shoreline, Myrddin approaches him. Godric grabs hold of his patience with both hands, just in case.

“Have you walked in dream to confer with others in the south?” Myrddin asks.

Godric immediately shakes his head. “No. Not since I mastered the skill so I ceased to do it by accident. It is too much of intrusion into the lives of others. It’s ill-mannered.”

Myrddin gives him a look of great irritation. “It is a tool of your magic. Tools are not _ill-mannered_!”

“Any tool can be put to foul use,” Godric retorts.

Helga must have overheard their conversation, because she is at Godric’s side as he turns away from Myrddin’s ire. “You walk in others’ dreams?” There is such an expression of consternation on her face that Godric halts in concern.

“Not deliberately. I learned to control it because I kept accidentally spying on others at night.”

Helga raises an eyebrow. “You are of the Sálgönge Fólk, but not deliberately.”

“What are Sálgönge Fólk?”

She buries her face in her hands. “Never mind. Please forget that I spoke of such things.”

They all stand and watch as Myrddin taps his wand to a boulder jutting out of the earth. The shadow it casts deepens until it is perfectly black. “Walk through the shadow,” Myrddin instructs, as casual as if he is telling others how to board a boat. “Do not fear the darkness. Simply keep walking until it is bright again, and you will have arrived.” He pauses. “Oh, and do not stray from the path you will find yourself on. That would be inconvenient.”

Helga calms the fears of her kinsmen by immediately walking right into the shadow, disappearing as the blackness of it claims her. The Norræn do not look excited to be following in her footsteps, but do so anyway.

Godric’s people do not hesitate. They once walked into a Sacred Door, and while they have never been fond of repeating the process, Myrddin’s folding of the path is far less intimidating than the Door and its lurking guardians.

Ninian appears to desperately wish to protest, but sighs and gestures for Uilleam, Torcuil, and Niall to follow their queen when Eilénóra leads her horse into the shadow. Moirrey trudges in after them, looking as if she’d rather be doing anything else.

“Don’t twist the path,” Myrddin warns Godric when he steps forward.

Godric rolls his eyes. “If I could keep from doing so when Edda first showed this talent to me, I can certainly keep from doing so now.”

Myrddin is unimpressed. “You were not then so much closer to being yourself.”

Godric hates to admit that the old man is right. He hasn’t traveled one of Edda’s folded paths since before he walked through the Door. The darkness is familiar, the path well-lit, as if from a moon he cannot see…but he can also feel _possibility_ lurking on all sides of him.

It’s sarding unnerving. Not even walking through Griffon’s Door made him feel like this.

“I told you,” Myrddin says when Godric emerges from the shadow to find himself in the lands of Galloway. He is less concerned with the fact that Myrddin traveled last but arrived before _any_ of them—Godric once walked first and emerged last—and far more concerned with that jangling sense of easy changing.

“Oh. Well, you will never be able to open such paths on your own. Wrong sort of magic,” Myrddin says as he uses his wand to unfold their path. Everyone is much relieved when the tree and stone that were wrapped together become only themselves again. “But having walked through one of the Sacred Doors, you could easily walk where you wished and decide upon a destination yourself. I don’t recommend such things.”

“Why not?” Godric asks, even if he has no intention of ever doing so. He’d much prefer to leave folding magic to those who are capable.

“Wrong sort of magic, as I said,” Myrddin replies in annoyance. “You would not be able to close whichever door you emerged from.”

“That may be the most logical thing I’ve yet to hear you say,” Godric says, and goes to make certain that the others are well. Eilénóra is exhilarated and bright-eyed by her first journey along a folded path, which isn’t like the Síðian she has experienced by way of her Court’s magicians. Oriel has walked Edda’s paths so often that the journey is like nothing. Godric’s people are just grateful that the folded path was not like walking through the unceasing darkness of travel through a Sacred Door.

Their Norse companions look as if they might have decided to start worshipping Helga and Myrddin both.  Godric supposes that worship is a far better response than terror.

Without enough horses for them all, those who have them choose to lead their mounts and walk with the Norse. Then Godric realizes that this is opportunity enough for a first lesson. He chivies and cajoles Helga until she makes a face at him before climbing up to sit upon Ehwaz’s saddle.

“How does one keep their balance upon an animal that is not moving to suit you?” Helga asks in dismay, clinging to fistfuls of Ehwaz’s mane.

“Be at ease in the saddle. Move with it. Don’t be still or fight against it.” Godric is glad Myrddin is ignoring them; that is a lesson he should have applied to boats at once without needing to be told.

Helga’s kin are no longer in such obvious worship when they realize that the example their lord’s daughter provides means they must do the same. They have horses enough that soon, all nine of their Norse allies are astride horses being placidly led along, though none ride Eilénóra’s mount. The queen has a war-trained mare with bad temperament for anyone who is not her rider.

“No, that is enough. My backside is sore!” Helga moans piteously an hour later. “How do you stand it?”

Godric smiles. “You get used to it.” He helps her to dismount before speaking again. “It’s just as well. There is a village ahead, and from the way Myrddin hurries his steps, I assume that is the one he meant us to visit.”

“Or he’s trying to leave,” Selova says dryly. “I don’t think I would blame him.”

When they step into the cleared edge of ground surrounding the village, Godric breathes in as magic flows over his skin. Warding magics, subtle things of beauty that judge them to be allies, not threats, and allow them to proceed. He has only ever experienced that fine hand with magical protections in Galloway, but when he has asked in the past, everyone pretended ignorance. That told him it is some secret craft of the Britons or the Picts. They teach others well enough, but not when it comes to magic that is unique to their tribes.

Godric grins as he notices one of those awaiting them in the village square. “Bouddiga!”

“Hello, Lord Godric,” Bouddiga replies. He does not stop smiling, but her use of his rank is meant to be a signal—of what sort, he doesn’t yet know. “Welcome, all of you. This is the Village of Treuercarcou, resting on the shores of Ea Cennan, what you call the River Ken.”

“Water of Knowing,” Godric quietly translates for Helga and the Norse twins who stand closest to him. Helga looks intrigued, but remains quiet as Bouddiga continues to speak.

“The Vǫlva Edda has told us of your intent, Lord Godric. Galloway remembers you fondly, and has decided to aid you,” Bouddiga says, “But first you must know of who I am in truth.”

“Because that’s not how dire warnings begin,” Yon mutters.

“Shh!” Tomas hisses, stomping on Yon’s foot.

Bouddiga seems amused by their nonsense. “Lord Godric Grypusdor, Eorl of Somerset by right of blood and magic: I am Bouddiga, Magical Master of Plants and Potions, widow to the King of the North Britons, Cynbel of the Iron Blade.”

Godric blinks a few times, if only so he does not gape at her. “Then, teacher of potions and plants, it is a pleasure to greet the Queen of the North Britons. I am sorry for your loss, and wonder if the Kingdom of Cumbria might contest your claim to be the Kingdom of the North Britons.”

Bouddiga laughs in her familiar, rough-edged way. “Your tongue still prefers the bluntness of a good comb to the sharpness of the sword. The Kingdom of Cumbria is the non-magical land of the North Britons, and as such, we pay tribute to them as our overlord. Galloway is the Magical Kingdom of the North Britons. I am of the Epidii, the ancient Horse Lords of the North, but I honor my husband’s tribe of the Votadini and rule in his stead.”

Godric raises both eyebrows. He’d thought the Epidii to be gone, consumed by the migration of Gaeils and Norse from the western isle. “I am grateful you find faith enough with myself and those who stand with me to speak of such things.”

“Perhaps not _entirely_ the blunt tooth of the comb, then,” Bouddiga says, smiling. “With me stand Drustan and Iudoc, my eldest grandsons.” Both are men with the dark hair, dark eyes, and pale skin of the Britons, and are so similar in appearance that they could be twins but for their obvious difference in age.

An older man with a Briton’s dark hair and pale skin but a northerner’s sea-blue eyes comes forward, standing next to Bouddiga. “I am Morcant ab Cynbel, Heir to the Magical Throne of Galloway,” he says to introduce himself. “My mother must remain here to protect our lands. My eldest sons and I will accompany you to the south, along with all the men who fight for our house. Before you concern yourself,” Morcant continues, holding up one hand. He has the grizzled expression of a man who has seen many battles, but Godric finds the gentle quirk of Morcant’s lip and decides it has not hardened his heart. “We want no coin from you, Lord Godric. Our concern is not only in assisting one who has been a friend to Galloway, but also to ending the pall of foul magic that hangs over the south of this isle. We may not be shadowed by it, but it affects the land and the sea, and we will tolerate it no more.”

Godric inclines his head. “Then I am grateful that you join us, and ask only that you trust in my words when I speak of the way this must be done.”

Morcant nods. “He is your uncle. Unless you commit us to foolishness, I will not speak against you.”

The prince of Galloway introduces Godric to the warrior who leads their men when Morcant cannot do so. Seisylla is as tall as a Norræn, but she is slender in a way that makes her appear delicate until she puts on helm and chainmail and hefts a sword that looks to be wider than she is. Then there is nothing of delicacy to her, reminding Godric of a smith who decided that the only thing better than making swords was wielding one. If anyone sees the weapon in her hand and still judges her only by the pale lashes that surround her green eyes and plump curve of her lip, they deserve to bleed for it.

Second to Seisylla is Nianha. She professes to be Briton-born of the old Brigantes tribe, but even with the ways of travel in the world, he has never before encountered a Briton woman with ebony skin and startling blue eyes. She keeps her hair braided close to her head in beautiful rows adorned with colored ribbon and gold, though the longer braids that hang down her back have hidden spikes. She is an excellent bowman, and has a pair of small axes for close combat rather than a sword.

Godric flirts with her and is utterly shameless about it. Nianha tolerates it for the entire day of their first meeting before dragging him behind a tree and kissing him into silence. That prompts Seisylla to ask why Godric is not also flirting with her, to which Godric protests that he tries to flirt with only one woman at a time to avoid hurt feelings and vengeance upon his person.

Seisylla and Nianha grin at each other. “Trust me,” Seisylla drawls. “We do not mind in the slightest.”

The bed in his lodgings is rather crowded that night. He doesn’t regret it at all.

Morcant and Seisylla also introduce Godric to the thirty warriors that fight under Morcant’s banner alone. “More may join us,” Morcant says. “I am only one man, but I am Heir to my father’s throne. It will attract attention.”

Godric tries not to grimace. “And spread rumors I’d rather avoid.”

“Quiet attention,” Morcant amends. “My word on it. No rumor of those who would fight under your banner will travel south.”

Godric reaches out and clasps his arm when Morcant offers it to finalize the pledge. “Thank you.”

They’re to journey north at the end of the week to petition Cumbria for their assistance. The king has voiced interest in Godric’s cause before, but Cumbria’s aid has never been certain. Godric is still thinking on what might sway them when there is a commotion at the edge of the village. He leaves the building he resides in and sees riders approaching, still on horseback despite already being within the village. They are either rude or entitled.

 _Entitled_ , Godric thinks with distant humor as Máel Coluim ab Dyfnwal, King of Cumbria, halts his brown mare in the center of Treuercarcou before dismounting.

“I seek the Queen of Galloway, the Magician Bouddiga,” Máel Coluim announces as the six men who ride with him also dismount, standing in a half-circle that guards their king without giving the appearance of weakness. “I also seek the Lord Godric ab Leofric, Eorl of Griffon’s Door and Somerset in the Kingdom of England.”

“Then you have found myself, at least, though the Queen Bouddiga is not here.” Godric steps forward and struggles to keep his expression neutral. Máel Coluim might have come to Galloway for a noble purpose, but it is odd timing. “My Lord Máel Coluim.”

“Lord Godric.” Máel Coluim gives him a quick, searching glance. “Galloway sent word to her overlord in the north that you were to seek my assistance.”

“I’d planned to do so tomorrow,” Godric admits cautiously. “To see you here is a surprise.”

“I thought to save you the journey.” When Máel Coluim smiles, it reminds Godric that the king came to his throne young, and is not yet thirty. “How am I to negotiate trade between your eorldom and my kingdom if I do not see you properly returned to your home and lands?”

“I would say that Bristol and its easy way to the sea might also have influenced your decision.” Godric holds out his hand. “But I will accept your pledge and welcome your banner as long as you hold no ill thoughts of fighting under mine.”

“I know you are honorable and will fight under my banner if need should arise,” Máel Coluim replies, grasping Godric’s arm. “I’ve seen my young friend grow to be a man, and as your friend, it fills me with pride to see that you will not allow unjust laws to keep you from retaking your home.”

“The age of inheritance?” Godric shakes his head. “I might still have waited until next summer if my uncle had not forced my hand.”

Máel Coluim is unswayed. “It will still show your strength when you take it from vile hands. That is no bad thing. When I send my riders back, they will bring forty soldiers to this village. How many men will then fight with us?”

“Morcant ab Cynbel has thirty warriors of his own, magical and non-magical among them. Other fighters within Galloway have joined us as the days have passed. With forty of Cumbria, there will then be one hundred thirty of us.”

“And you have not yet even petitioned the English Court.” Máel Coluim nods, pleased. “If you have a strategy that matches your strength, then deposing your uncle will prove no difficulty at all.”

 

*         *         *         *

 

Other allies in the north pass along word of Godric’s quest, and those who are willing to fight under his banner grow in number as Iulius wanes. They come to Galloway in small groups, farmers and herders and minor lords, alliances Godric made in friendship rather than the binding of a kingdom’s allegiance. Between their number, those of Galloway, Cumbria, and his smaller but vital alliances with Muireb and the Norse, their number is now one hundred fifty-eight warriors, a much larger group than Godric anticipated.

On the last day of Iulius, they board the boats that will take them down the River of Knowing to the coast, where other, sturdier boats will be acquired. Morcant and his mother Bouddiga have been vague on how those boats will come to be, but Godric does not think they mean deceit. He has seen the wariness on the faces of the non-magical soldiers who accompanied Máel Coluim, men and women who have little experience with magic. If boats are gained by magical means, Godric suspects the army will need to be distracted from their creation so that wary soldiers do not fear to sail upon them.

When they arrive at the coast, Godric stands on the shoreline and looks at the angry water beyond the cove, trying not to grimace. The sea is rough, as if they face the storms of winter already. The waves beyond the breakwater are high and dangerous.

“We’re closer to Somerset,” Myrddin says in a low voice, one meant to carry no further than Godric’s ears. “The northern sea is not affected, but here it is obvious. The great ocean has aided enemies in their attacks against the northern shore.”

Ocean. Godric thinks he recalls the word to be Greek, but its meaning is more specific than the word in his tongue, as _sea_ refers to lakes as well as the open water. The moment he encountered the Gaeil’s _loch_ , he adopted it, liking the distinction. Perhaps he should consider retaining _ocean_ as well. “What attacks?”

“The Danes of the Kingdom of Denmark have taken advantage of the new king’s youth,” Myrddin replies. Godric is briefly surprised that the old man is granting easy answers to his questions, but if Myrddin became predictable, Briton would probably crumble into dust. “The Isle of Tanet was struck first, and the great light that serves as a beacon for approaching ships is being rebuilt. The raid against Hantescire has the king’s advisors speaking of concentrating the strength of the kingdom there rather than in land-locked London.”

“If London were landlocked, it would not have been raided at all,” Godric says in momentary scorn. He wonders what sort of fools the new king has surrounded himself with that they would overlook the great River Tamesis’s easy passage. “Centering the king’s army in one place upon the coast would slow its ability to respond to threats that might land in other parts of England.”

Myrddin nods. “One might wonder why the king is being advised to cripple England’s defence.”

Godric thinks of the old deal that King Edgar agreed to with Northumbrian jarls, the arrangement that benefitted the northern English-dwelling Norsemen but not England herself. “I wonder if they’re related.”

“Is the queen not Mercian?”

Now Godric has a headache. He doesn’t want to contemplate what it might mean if the Dowager Queen is deliberately helping to weaken her own kingdom. “I will leave England’s foolery to England for now, thank you. Those attacks mean that the king will not be inclined to assist, will he?”

Myrddin tilts his head. “If the right words were used, perhaps. It would be easy to find the wrong ones.”

Godric rolls his eyes. “Myrddin, that is true of every single ruler upon this isle.”

“You think of altering your plan.”

There is no reason to deny it. “I am,” Godric says. “I did not think to gain so many allies, and the news you have given me of the attacks changes a great deal.”

Myrddin nods while stroking the long, straggling hairs of his long beard. “Those who stand with you may prove as important as the words themselves.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Godric knows his grin is too sharp and doesn’t care. “Because you are one of those who will be accompanying me to Æthelred’s court.”

The resulting scowl on Myrddin’s face will gird him well against the breakwater when they sail for open water. Godric leaves the old man grumbling on the shore, walking further down the beach to seek a patch of clear ground.

Máel Coluim finds him circling a vast swath of Transfigured earth and halts in place. Godric can feel the king’s stare on his shoulders as he studies the map, formed to resemble the terrain and holdings in all of Somerset.

“That is an incredible work of magic,” Máel Coluim says at last. “This is your home?”

“Thank you for the compliment. This is Somerset as seen by means of magical flight above the land many years ago. The sight was recreated on maps that my father held.” Godric uses his wand to point at one of the southeastern holdings. “This is Griffon’s Door.”

“That is quite far from the western coast.”

“It is.” Godric focuses for a moment and extends the map, calling on old memories until he has a stretch of ground transformed to resemble the south of England. “And that is how far it stands from London.”

“Several days’ ride,” Máel Coluim notes. Godric can hear the frown in his voice. “Even if rumor of your planned journey to London did not reach him, the overland approach would give our enemy a great deal of time to prepare a defence.”

“Which is why I crafted this map. We need to plan accordingly.” Godric casts his Patronus and hopes that his non-magical allies do not find it offensive. The griffon of his family’s seal stretches its misty wings and takes flight before disappearing to complete its given task.

“There are times I truly regret that magic never seems to have touched my bloodline,” Máel Coluim says.

Godric grants the king a faint smile. “But it is your fortune that you do not have to contend with blood sorcery and a truly evil magician for an uncle who has usurped all of your family claims.”

Máel Coluim grimaces. “Lord Godric, I don’t believe it was necessary to point out so effectively that the situation in Somerset is dire.”

The others join them within minutes, as they had not wandered far. The prince Morcant appears by Síðian after Myrddin has slowly made his way to the earthen map. Seisylla and Nianha arrive together, followed by Drustan and Iudoc. Tyr ab Osgar, who commands Máel Coluim’s army in his absence, approaches in the company of Queen Eilénóra, Healer Moirrey, and Ninian mac Ailpein. Helga, Fríða Finnrsdóttir, and the Norse twins Iuar and Iwan are with Emma and Oriel. Domnal mac Eimen of Màrr joined them on the very last day in the company of ten men, stating that his father wished to give his thanks to Godric for stopping the King of Alba from using his kingdom as a path to war with Muireb. Brian of Srath Èireann and Móra of Mòine Tèadhaich stand as quiet Gaeil sentinels; Godric chose them to command the independent men and women who joined under his banner. There is also a Gaeil man of the Witenaġemōt, Reibeart, who will not say if he will be fighting for Godric or not, but he also will not _leave_.

Not that Reibeart’s silence stopped Godric from tearing into the man for the Witenaġemōt’s failure to do its duty for Griffon’s Door. Reibeart then had the stones to be _correct_ when he countered that the Witenaġemōt was legally bound by the king’s word in regards to Wystan Grypusdor’s claiming of Griffon’s Door and Somerset. Without a witness—Godric, all but imprisoned inside his own home—there was nothing the Witenaġemōt could do that would not rouse the wrath of an enspelled England.

“Then will you do something _now_?” Godric had asked in frustration.

Reibeart nodded. “Why do you think I am here, Godric of Griffon’s Door? No matter the decision of the Magician’s Council, it will take a magical army to depose your uncle.”

Godric puts aside his continued ire with the Witenaġemōt. There are more important things to concern himself with right now. “Before we leave the protected land of Galloway, we face our first problem. The enchantment over my home might be centered upon Griffon’s Door, but it covers the whole of Somerset and leaches its foul way across the south of England. The moment one of you steps upon the southern shore without Galloway’s protection is to fall sway to Wystan’s magic.”

“I’ve been thinking on that, discussing its effects with Queen Eilénóra, Oriel Sevestresdottir, Helga Hlodvirsdóttir, and Queen Bouddiga,” Moirrey says. “Your perfect recollection serves to protect you from that enchantment, and it is the consensus of _all_ of us that Griffon’s Door will recognize you as the Heir your father named you. Blood magic upon a pendant, Lord Godric—your blood in particular. Your memory will translate through the magic; your clarity of mind will cause that vile enchantment to part like a curtain before us.”

Godric thinks on it. Blood magic no longer holds terror for him as it did when he first arrived in the north. “There are many of us, and more to claim in Somerset. That is quite a bit of blood.”

“Nonsense,” Moirrey responds. “A single drop per pendant. With those who accompany us to support the army, you need only grant us two hundred drops of blood.”

He has to remind himself that Moirrey is a healer, not a warrior or strategist. “Healer Moirrey, that may be true for those with us now, but the pendants you speak of for others who join us in Somerset will need to be made here.”

“Oh.” Moirrey chews on the edge of her thumb for a moment. “Fortunately, we have blood replenishing potions.”

“Before I stab my thumb and bleed for this purpose…will it work?” Godric asks. “We must be certain.”

“It will work,” Myrddin says. “Not only will all carry a reminder of their pledge to the Lord of Griffon’s Door, the magic of the enchantment the healer speaks of will blend well with the magic in your blood.”

“I am reassured, even if I do not look forward to wearing another man’s blood magic against my skin,” Tyr says. His words give confidence to the other non-magical men of this council of war.

“It will be as if there is no blood at all,” Helga decides to add. “When the magic is done correctly, the blood resides within the object, not upon it. It will be as if you wear a normal bit of decoration upon your person.”

“That will have to be enough, then.” Godric redirects their attention to the map. “Myrddin has told me that there have been attacks upon the coast of England. Given what I know of the politics of the kingdom, I fear there will be no assistance from the throne.”

“He is your _king_ ,” Iuar says in a tone of intense displeasure. “Is he not duty-bound to assist the loyal jarl who is pledged to his throne?”

“That would be a fine thing, but the king is young and his advisors…” Godric shakes his head. “Ultimately, I don’t think it will matter, for all I am still bound to tell my king of my intentions. There are folk in Somerset who are not content with Wystan’s leadership. When all is explained to them, I firmly believe they will assist us.”

Godric points at the map with his wand, muttering a spell under his breath that writes the names of every hold, keep, castle, village, port, loch, and river on the entire stretch of map. “This is Somerset,” he says, creating a circle that labels the bounds of the eorldom. Corfe Castle makes his heart hurt with the reminder of King Edward’s murder; London and its great fortress stand out in stark relief in the east. “The distance from London is vast, and the kingdom fearful. If we sail to London as we are, then we risk creating fears that will see us attacked before we can be heard. Not only that, we risk Wystan raising an army greater than ours, with time enough to place defences that will be difficult to overcome.”

Fríða understands his meaning at once. “You wish to divide our forces.”

“By necessity. I refuse to grant my uncle an easy victory. I’d rather see him suffer an easy defeat.” Godric points at Bristol. “This is Somerset’s largest port on the water. We shall land there under the cover of darkness and an invisibility spell that will conceal us all from sight.”

Helga’s eyes gleam with mischief. “You will be teaching me that, Lord Godric, or I will make you regret seeking your bed at night for dreams.”

Godric decides he is not going to ask how she would assault his dreams. It just seems wiser not to know. “I will. You will need it—a magician who can successfully cast this charm must travel with each group, as in Bristol we will temporarily part ways.”

“Why Bristol?” Morcant asks, without concern for the change in their strategy.

“My sister, Leffeda, is the Countess of Thornbyrig. Her husband’s home and lands are here.” He points to the smaller keep north of Bristol. “By marriage contract, Eorl Astell is bound to assist me in matters of war. I will travel to meet with the Eorl of Thornbyrig in secret, tasking him to arrange for others of Somerset to join under our banner.”

“Gathering more warriors to your cause before London ever hears word of your arrival.” Ninian smiles in approval. “What else, Lord Godric?”

“Some of our warriors will stay with my sister and her husband, and travel west with them when they leave their home to join us in Griffon’s Door. Others will travel overland under continued protection of the invisibility charm.” Godric points his wand at the keep on the Fosse Way. “These are the lands belonging to the House of the Forked River. Sir Gabell and the Lady Osthryth of Wessex have long been allies, and I know from letters exchanged with their younger daughter, the Lady Sedemai, that they have been spreading quiet whisper of my intent to return to Griffon’s Door. A second group of warriors will go directly to Gifle and join with their household as they raise arms for this battle.”

Myrddin turns his head and regards Godric with an expression that might be a frown, but is perhaps also bafflement. “You have not been gaining strength and allies for a mere week’s time. You have been doing so since you left Somerset.”

“From the moment I was capable. Of course I would. To wait until the very moment of battle is ridiculous,” Godric says, biting back a fierce smile. “I would have known better than that at age twelve, old man.”

“Hmph,” is Myrddin’s response, but Godric suspects he is pleased.

“I much prefer going to war with intelligent allies,” Máel Coluim says. Morcant, Eilénóra, Seisylla, Helga, and Fríða all agree with his words. Oriel and Emma just look proud of Godric, which nearly causes Godric to roll his eyes at their blatant pleasure.

“Once I’ve secured the pledge of my sister’s husband, some of us will sail to London to seek out my king, and perhaps we will gain allies doing so. Ninian mac Ailpein will remain on the west coast to lead those of Muireb who have joined us, and Móra of Mòine Tèadhaic will rally the Gaeils. Seisylla and Nianha will stay with the royal princes of Galloway to lead their army. Fríða Finnrsdóttir will command those of the north in the absence of myself and Helga Hlodvirsdóttir.  Healer Moirrey will also stay with those who land in Bristol, gathering healers both magical and non-magical to our banner. I will not see us gain a victory only to lose allies to wounds easily healed.”

Godric points his wand at the map again, creating rough groups of mobile riders who converge on Griffon’s Door from the northwest, the north, and the east. The larger group of riders from the northwest splits into groups of two, so that others will ride upon Griffon’s Door from the west. “My uncle will expect those of us who ride from London. He will not expect the others.”

“We will not only force him to put his back to the sea, but we will cut off his ability to call for further arms and supplies.” Eilénóra sighs and smiles. “What else, Godric? There are reasons why you vex my husband so at Tafl.”

Godric inclines his head, returning her smile, before his expression becomes somber reminder. “This cannot be a siege. There are too many innocents who call Griffon’s Door their home. To starve out the enemy is to condemn my people, as Wystan would sacrifice them without hesitation to prolong his own survival.”

This time, Godric’s wand creates a ring of earthen soldiers that advance upon the keep. They draw back longbows, and tiny arrows composed of grains of sand strike the upper walls. “We cripple their defence. If the archers who guard the keep’s walls are pierced by arrows in the hand and arm so that they cannot draw the string of a bow to launch an arrow, then they would not be able to halt an advance.”

“They would be swiftly healed.” Morcant frowns and glances at Godric. “Or has your uncle been such a fool as to rid himself of magical healers?”

“He retained none during our time there,” Godric replies. “That might have changed, but given his lack of concern for the comfort of others, it is not likely. I did not ever see my uncle demonstrate any hint of healing talent, either.”

“Fool,” Morcant mutters again.

Máel Coluim studies the lands of Griffon’s Door before looking at Godric. “But you don’t mean to assault the keep itself. These fields surrounding it are perfect for the waging of battles. You mean to draw Wystan Grypusdor from the safety of the keep and into a battle of your choosing. How?”

Godric smiles. “We have magicians and archers both. There are many things we can send over the walls of a keep that would drive men to angry desperation.”

Helga looks to be muttering the names of all the villages under her breath before she speaks. “Fear. You wish to create such fear that they feel that getting rid of their enemy beyond the walls is their only choice.”

“And the fact that we will never allow Wystan to see that our numbers are more than twenty…”

Fríða laughs aloud. “A trap of fine making, Lord Godric. My kinsman should adopt you.”

“We of Muireb had first claim. You will have to wait your turn,” Eilénóra says with firm pride.

 

*         *         *         *

 

“You do realize that you have asked men to fight under your banner, but you do not actually have a banner.”

Godric rolls up the third map he has finished copying for the groups who will travel on their own to Griffon’s Door before responding. “I’m aware. I’ve been a bit busy, Selova. I’d thought to make certain of its creation on the voyage to London.”

He’s always known what it takes to lead Griffon’s Door. He was taught what it meant to be Magical Eorl of Somerset by his father. To lead an army has a specific dance to it. He could see hints of that rhythm with Brigands and Tafl. Fighting in the north, granting his services to the banners of mærs, thegns, and kings had shown him the way it sounded. He’d learned quickly that the fight itself was not the most vital aspect, but everything that came before. Godric has spent much of his time greeting every single man and woman who has agreed to support Griffon’s Door, learning their names and their reasons for going to war. Many are honest when they say they need the coin paid, but are glad that the cause they’re to fight for is just.

“But a single banner leaves the others bereft.” Selova sits down on the ground next to him, bright-eyed and in good spirits despite the threat of war. “You are not the only one who has been busy. Making certain that all who will agree to it wears armor that fits properly is also no easy task. Too many believe that receiving battle wounds and bearing those scars with pride is worth the risk that comes from not wearing armor in the first place.”

“You will not see me going into battle without armor. Not by choice.” Godric considers it before using duplicating magic to make a fourth copy of the map of Somerset. He doesn’t believe it will be needed for those who travel to London with him, but plans can change. Better to have it than not.

“I know. In that, at least, I have no concerns.” Selova fitted Godric’s armor herself, clucking her tongue when she discovered that his mail was too short, and stole away with it to add to its length. “I’ve come to return your armor, Godric, but also to provide you with the banner you need.”

Godric watches as Selova unrolls a length of scarlet made of thick woven silk. On it is the silver oak tree’s spreading branches; a rearing griffon, also silver, is standing before the tree. “When did you have time to do this?”

“I wouldn’t have had time at all if I’d not seen the cloth in the hands of a trader. I asked one of our magicians to place the tree and the griffon on it using magic,” Selova admits. “I feared I didn’t remember the seal of Griffon’s Door correctly, but it looks as if I’ve done it well.”

“It is.” Godric looks at the griffon and the oak tree while touching the gold pendant that rests on the hollow of his throat. “But I will be making one change.” He uses his wand to turn the oak tree that guards Griffon’s Door the same gold as the token Sedemai granted him.

Selova’s eyes widen. “Gold? Who has allied with your house that you would make such a change? You’ve not betrothed yourself to a woman of Galloway without telling us, have you?”

Godric snorts. “No. I changed it because others are far too obvious in their hints, and I am not a fool. Do you have the other banners with you?”

Selova nods, leaving for a brief time and returning with three more scarlet banners. Four banners for four groups of soldiers, all of them riding to war. “What hints?”

“Not right now, Selova. It will become apparent when the time is right.” Godric changes the silver oak tree to gold on the other three banners. He is almost certain that Sir Gabell crafted an excellent scheme to convince the Dowager Queen to accept and declare the betrothal of a cousin to the House of Wessex to the next Eorl of Griffon’s Door. Given Sedemai’s written distaste for Wystan when she has encountered him in Court, Godric suspects that Sir Gabell meant to safeguard her against Wystan’s advances.

Godric never expected that he would marry for love of another, not as Eorl over Somerset. To be wed to Sedemai would be no great hardship, and to be wedded in friendship is a kindness. He just hopes that Sedemai feels the same way. His tendency to be distracted by the beauty of other women—his reliance upon them to keep nightmares at bay—will introduce enough difficulty to any marriage he dares attempt.

Selova rolls up three of the scarlet banners, but holds out the fourth. “This is yours, Godric, and it is long past the time it should have hung before your door.”

Godric nods in acceptance, ducking under the low doorway of his small tent to go outside. He Conjures a sturdy branch of wood, Transfiguring it until it is straight and sleek with a metallic shine—though he has insisted it remain wood. Selova attaches the banner to the top before he drives the new flagstaff into the earth.

The wind catches the scarlet silk at once. The banner ripples in the breeze before the wind pulls it taut, revealing the whole of the seal of his family.

Godric swallows down a sudden lump in his throat. “ _You will conceal the truth until its time_,” he whispers, “ _and righteousness until its appointed moment_.”

“That one sounds appropriate.” Selova’s smile is grim and determined. “The banner meets with your approval, Lord Godric?”

Godric makes himself smile. “It does.”

A mere banner has made him feel as if he has already succeeded in reclaiming his home.


	16. Fealty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Godric returns to England on the fifth of August in 980. It goes about as well as he expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For someone who dislikes Court as much as Godric, _he certainly likes bloody marinating in political intrigue!_
> 
> Largely unbeta'd (they are busy with awesome things) but @norcumi and @sanerontheinside have voiced their Feelspproval.

The guard’s cries reach her before the Steward. Leffeda takes only a moment to grab the bow she keeps in her sitting room by the door and hurries out to see to the threat.

She does send up a quick prayer of thanks that she had already risen and dressed for the day, and thus is not shooting arrows at the enemy in her nightclothes. Again. The Danes and the Gaeils from Éireann have such wretched timing.

Before she can find her favored spot on the high walls, the cry comes again, but this time it is caution, not war, that it speaks of. Leffeda frowns and tells Steward Dafydd to gather her children, in case there is need to safeguard them.

Dafydd pauses for a moment before he obeys. “I do not think you will need to safeguard them this day, Countess.” Then he is off, and Leffeda is left frowning in his wake. Dafydd is not a magician as her parents were, but like many, he holds a bit of magic within him.

The Steward of Thornbyrig is never wrong. She shoulders her bow and peers over the wall. Two riders are approaching, though one is much smaller than the other. It is the armor worn by the first one that must have raised the alarm, in case an army approached—

Leffeda spins around and runs, flying down the stairs so fast she isn’t certain her slippers touched stone. She rounds the corner and makes it into the courtyard just as both riders halt their horses, unconcerned by the ring of watchful, cautious guards. Running throughout her home, the babe she carries, and shock; they all serve to steal her breath.

The shorter rider is a young girl, perhaps thirteen years of age. She is Norse, wearing a very fine version of a Norsewoman’s dress. Her hair is the color of honey, though she also has a veil pinned over it. She is not dressed in the brighter colors the wealthy pine after, but in solid black sewn with gold, accented by golden jewelry.

The larger rider is so _tall_ , taller perhaps than Father, and Leofric had been a great oak among the reeds. He is beardless, which she finds an amusing choice. The color of his hair is darker than it once was, like living embers as he removes an odd-shaped helm. He wears chain over silk and leather, meant to speak of status and ferocity in equal measure.

 _Father taught you well,_ she thinks, and then she cannot hold back her shout any longer. “GODRIC!”

Godric has just dismounted, and he spins around when he hears her voice. She has a moment when her heart stutters in her chest. His eyes are like ice, nothing like warm childhood.

Once, Leffeda had wed and left home, never once thinking on how she would miss the rest of her brother’s childhood. She was ready to leave the nest, love her husband, raise their children, live her life.

Now she mourns, for there is no childhood left to him. Their bastard uncle stole it all away.

“Sister!” Godric strides right through the ring of guards, who are so startled that they forget to attempt to stop him. “I thought I would have to fight my way through a keep to see you.”

“They’re a bit overprotective,” Leffeda says, and then Godric has embraced her. It is like being held by a tree, one that dwarfs her. He outgrew her in height when he was young, all long limbs and sweet awkwardness, but this is quite different.

Then he picks her up and swings her around. “It is so good to see you!”

“I am not above sicking up all over your armor if you do not put me down at once!” Leffeda protests, laughing. “Have you no sense around a woman who is with child?”

“I’ve sense enough to take that threat seriously,” Godric replies, placing her back down on the earth. She has to tilt her head back quite far to look up at him. His eyes are ice, but his smile makes them warm.

“What are you doing here?” Sudden fear makes her step back in alarm. “It isn’t safe for you in England!”

Godric snorts his opinion of that. “I’m not entirely safe anywhere, Leffeda. Oh, manners—I do swear that I’ve gained them.” He turns and gestures for his companion to join them. “Sister, this is Helga Hlodvirsdóttir, daughter of Lord Hlodvir Thorfinnsson, and is in training to become a vǫlva of the north. Helga, this is the Countess Leffeda Grypusdor of Clover’s Hand and Thornbyrig.”

“A pleasure to greet you,” Helga says, dropping into a brief curtsey.

“And you as well,” Leffeda replies, desperately hoping Godric has not ignored her taunts and hints and betrothed himself to a Norsewoman. That would make things rather inconvenient at Court, even if Godric has otherwise chosen quite well in regards to the future countess of Griffon’s Door. “You are home a year early, and you’ve brought a Norse magician. Why?”

“Perhaps we should go inside,” Godric says, gentling his voice in a way that is eerily similar to how Mother had once calmed their fears. “It is unpleasant.”

“Very well.” Leffeda calls for the guards’ attention and is swift in seeing the horses stabled, in making certain the others will remain quiet as to who visits the keep, and that two young idiots among them will stop staring at the Norsewoman.

She takes them into her private receiving chamber after making certain Dafydd knows to wake her husband. He can hear the news again after he joins them; Leffeda will hear it now. “Tell me.”

Godric inclines his head in acknowledgement of a Countess’s order and does so.

He is right. It is not pleasant.

Leffeda’s seething anger at Wystan Grypusdor becomes a raging bonfire in the span of mere heartbeats. “Do you know who was murdered to craft this…this Horcrúce?”

The girl’s brow furrows. “Horcrúce?”

“Horcrux,” Godric says, and notices the look Leffeda gives him. “Don’t blame me. Latin happened to it before I learned the word.”

“Yes, but that—it changes the meaning—” Leffeda sputters, and Helga laughs. “What?”

“You are most certainly his sister. You’re both adamant scholars!”

Leffeda has to grant her that. This is just one subject in which she would have preferred to remain uneducated. “Brother?”

Godric shakes his head. “I don’t yet know. Edda is in the south to assist in these matters, so I imagine when we find her, we will find that answer.”

“Our great-grandmother is here.” Leffeda resists the urge to press her face into her hands. “And you’re not concerned at all.”

“Of course not. She is capable,” Godric says.

Leffeda weighs the expression on his face, wondering what sort of complications are hiding in her brother’s pouches. “What else have you unearthed that our great-grandmother’s advanced age brings you no hint of pause when it comes to fighting battles?”

Godric hesitates only a moment, but then he winces. “Myrddin Wyllt.”

Leffeda stares at him for a very long moment in which she hears no sound but the crackling of the fire. “I hate you,” she finally says, and Helga begins laughing again.

 

*          *          *          *

 

“I will not commit Clover’s Hand to a war against a superior opponent, especially an illegal war,” Astell tells Godric. Leffeda bites her tongue; she will not disagree with her husband in front of others. In private, she can and will argue against his decisions, but to show disharmony in public is to do harm to her household.

Besides, it is not Leffeda that must convince Astell. She isn’t entirely certain she wants this fight, either. It is a year too soon, with Godric not yet of age under English law. Stating his claim before the king will not be guarantee even if the Dowager Queen Ælfthryth finds favor with Godric. It will take an army to remove the usurper, and the king’s army will be more willing to fight for a man of age who has been denied his inheritance.

“Did you not pledge to my father that Clover’s Hand would assist Griffon’s Door?” Godric asks. “I do believe it was part of the wedding contract that bound you to my sister.”

“Yes, I am pledged,” Astell says, “to the man who is the Lord of Griffon’s Door, and that man is not yet you.”

Leffeda has seen men young and old lose their tempers for less than that. Godric merely smiles and holds up his hand. The Heir’s ring, the seal of their house, is on his finger. “I have been able to wear this since I reclaimed it from a thief at age fourteen,” Godric says. “The laws and rulers of England might demand otherwise, but the magic of Griffon’s Door answers to none but the Almighty.”

Astell looks startled before his expression hardens. “While you and I might recognize and understand the significance of such, most of the men of Æthelred’s Court are non-magical. A mere ring will not convince them to grant you an army, and those of Clover’s Hand alone will not be enough to unseat Wystan Grypusdor. You have no army, Godric, and thus you have no means to fight a war.”

Godric nods in a way that reminds Leffeda strongly of their father. She often saw a bit of arrogance in Leofric, but in Godric she sees only confidence. “How many men are enough to make an army in your eyes?”

“If I were to raid the outer resources of the keep? Perhaps twenty men, all on horseback,” Astell replies. “Were I to lay siege? One hundred men at the least. Two hundred if I wished to do more than simply isolate them in their own fortifications.”

“I see.” Godric glances at Helga, who has remained quiet for the confrontation but looks as if she finds it all to be quite entertaining. When Godric returns his attention to Astell, his eyes have become like ice, and the air seems cooler for it. “I already have an army of nearly one hundred seventy five warriors, Eorl Astell of Clover’s Hand and Thornbyrig. With those who travel with us, we are more than two hundred strong. I do not _need_ your assistance. I am only here to see if the men of England remember how to keep their word.”

“I…see.” Astell raises an eyebrow. “Where is this mysterious army, then? Is it shrunken down and hidden in a pouch?”

Godric’s expression does not change at all. “Half of this army is camped north of Bristol under an invisibility charm so as not to panic the port. The other half is already on its way to Gifle and the House of the Forked River.”

Astell abruptly stands up and leaves the table, but he does not depart. He walks to the fire and stands there, his hands resting behind his back. Leffeda cannot see his face, and worries at what he might decide. Astell is a good man, but he has a prideful temper.

Leffeda asks the question when Astell does not. “Are you to attack Wystan before seeing His Highness in London?”

“Of course not.” Godric seems amused by the idea. “You seek allies before the battle, not afterwards.”

Astell turns to face them again. She is relieved to see the smile on his face, faint though it is. “Lord Godric. You are the cunning strategist that your father always claimed you had the talent to be. Clover’s Hand will honor its pledge to the House of Griffon’s Door. What is it you wish of us?”

There is much planning to be done, then, but Leffeda chooses not to be a part of it. She is the Countess of Clover’s Hand and Thornbyrig, and thus she will remain here. She would be staying even if she were not with child; they are one of England’s first defenders against invaders on the western shore. This keep and the village are hers to guard and protect, even if she wields a bow instead of a wand. It is Astell who will ride with Godric to reclaim the home of her birth.

Leffeda finds Helga with the keep’s children, entertaining them with bits of harmless magic. She watches the illusion of a Welsh red dragon flutter through the air. The children keep trying to leap up to grab it, but it soars above their hands, taunting them with cheerful bursts of flame. “And just what are we doing?” she asks, crossing her arms.

“Mama!” Elfreda chirps, but she is already leaping for the dragon again. It’s Wilmær who immediately runs over to embrace her legs, but he has always been an affectionate child.

Helga smiles. “Are all of them yours? You’ve quite a number of warriors gathered here.”

Leffeda reminds Wilmær that he is supposed to avoid the mud before hoisting him into her arms anyway. The lavandarias will not be pleased with the state of her gown. “Not all of them. The children play together when not at their lessons. This one here is my eldest, Wilmær. The one so devoutly chasing your dragon is his younger sister, Elfreda. Younger sister Mary is the one hiding from you behind Iosefina. Isaac and Leoric are too young to be running about unsupervised, and remain with the nurse.”

“Five children, and yet another soon.” Helga smiles. “No matter whose god you follow, you are blessed.”

“Do you wish for children?” Leffeda asks, and does not regret the attempt to divine information.

“Yes. Many. However, I…” Helga gives Leffeda a look that is calculating, borderline sly. “I prefer the company of beautiful women. While there are spells that would assist us in gaining a child without having to…engage…in those sorts of activities with a man, you still have to find a man tolerable enough to make the attempt worth it.”

Leffeda is surprised into laughter. “Yes, that is true. I’m glad I find my husband tolerable.” She also relaxes a bit more, glad to know that Godric is not betrothed to this Norse magician. “Would it be insulting if I asked your age?”

Helga’s lips quirk. “Englishmen find some very strange things to be offensive. No, it is not. I am thirteen years old.”

Leffeda’s eyes widen. “And your parents allowed you to accompany my brother to war?”

This time, she _does_ cause offence. Helga draws herself up, shoulders back, pride in every line in her body. “I am seiðkona. Soon, I will be vǫlva. My father is a good and wise man, but it is no longer he that guides my actions. I followed the Guardian Fire of the South to this land with a free heart, Countess Leffeda of Clover’s Hand.”

Leffeda bows her head. “My apologies. I truly meant no offence.”

Helga studies her before nodding. “You did not. Your apology is accepted.” She creates another illusionary dragon, this one green, to chase after the red one.

“Who is this Guardian Fire of the South?” Leffeda asks, once she is certain questions are again acceptable.

Helga lowers her yew wand to stare at Leffeda in surprise. “I understand why my people did not know of it, but I find it odd that a sister does not know her brother’s war title.”

“He never mentioned it, no,” Leffeda murmurs, shocked. She knows, even from his brief letters, that Godric has done much in the north during his magical apprenticeship. She didn’t realize he’d done anything to earn such a name.

She finds Astell in conference with men of the guard, but lacking Godric. Dafydd directs Leffeda upstairs, where she finds Godric in the nursery. “Does northern air cause an intense desire for the company of children?”

Godric looks up from where he is sitting on the rug with three-year-old Isaac and six-month-old Leoric. He is not using his wand to cast illusions, but doing as he did as a child—he is animating toys with a mere touch of his finger. Isaac looks awed and delighted, but it is Leoric who keeps knocking the toys over by squealing at them. “I suppose it does. It certainly fed the desire to be with family.”

Leffeda bites her lip. “Yes. I suppose it would.”

Godric rightens the toy Leoric felled and animates it again, giving the baby a cautious look. “You know, you’ve told me of four children you have, with one yet to be. Yet this little one certainly has the hair of a Grypusdor.”

“You are not the only one who knows how to be cunning, Godric,” Leffeda says in a brisk voice, crossing the room to lift her youngest child into her arms. The act makes her belly hurt, and brings her fleeting concern for the child within, but when she straightens, the pain is gone. “When Wystan claimed Griffon’s Door and slaughtered our family, I began hiding the truth of my children until they’d survived a year and a day. I kept them sheltered from the world until their most vulnerable time was passed, even if it meant keeping the truth of them from you. You sit with Isaac, and this,” she hefts the baby in her arms, making him giggle, “is Leoric. He is named for two good men of our family.”

“Then you are pregnant with your sixth child.” Godric smiles, but there are shadows lurking in his pale eyes. “Leoric is the only one born able to use magic, isn’t he?”

Leffeda nods. “I don’t know why magic is avoiding our line. It is strong in my veins, and Astell is the magical son of two accomplished magicians. The spark remains in their blood, but only Leoric can use it. I hope the next child I bear will share that ability.”

“I wonder if Wystan’s curse upon the land would harm children,” Godric mutters, but maintains his smile for Isaac’s benefit. “Even in Galloway, the air is often foul with it, though at that distance, the magic does not have the power to make others believe Wystan is a just and rightful eorl.”

Leffeda puts a hand to her belly and tries not to shiver. Thankfully, Leoric pulls on her hair and provides a welcome distraction. “Don’t say such things, unless you wish to invite evil!” she whispers.

Godric looks at her without blinking. His gaze for Astell was cold during the worst point of their meeting, but this is not that same chill. It is calm resolve, forged in steel. “I am going to kill the evil that resides in Somerset, Leffeda. I am going to _end_ any harm his magic intends to bring. I swear he will fall, and your children will be safe.”

Leffeda presses her lips together and can only nod when fear and joy collide, attempting to overwhelm her. She does not know why he earned his name, but she now believes that the Guardian Fire of the South is exactly who Godric was meant to be.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Godric is rather glad he didn’t mention Myrddin to anyone but his sister. Astell’s reaction to being confronted with Myrddin Wyllt, in all his ragged glory, will be a fond memory for years to come.

“You’re Myrddin?” Astell stutters, though he does recall to hold out his arm.

Myrddin doesn’t hesitate to grasp it, but his grin is all teeth and shining mad eyes. “I am Myrddin. You’re Astell. You’re holding things up; let’s move on, shall we?” he suggests, and then walks away.

Godric decides to take pity on his brother by marriage. “He is like that. It takes some getting used to.”

“But that’s _Myrddin Wyllt_!” Astell whispers. His eyes also have a bit of a mad gleam to them. “You don’t understand. My lands border the kingdoms of the Cymru. I grew up hearing the tales of Myrddin recited so often I’ve memorized them myself!”

“A famous goat is still a goat,” Godric points out, and then nearly rolls his eyes as he realizes he’s quoting Stígandr.

“You can’t call Myrddin Wyllt a goat!” Astell rasps, scandalized.

“I’ve done it so often I am already looking for a new word to use. I am starting to feel guilt over how often I’ve implied insult to goats.”

Godric distracts Astell from meeting a childhood mythical hero by introducing him to the rest of the army. Clover’s Hand brought a force of forty men. It is no great army by any reckoning, but most of Astell’s soldiers are still needed to defend the border. The men and women of Clover’s Hand are introduced first to Helga’s Norse companions, in hopes that they will recognize the Norsemen as allies instead of foes from the west. Then they greet Brian of Srath Èireann, Ninian mac Ailpein, and Reibeart from the Magician’s Witenaġemōt.

Astell scowls. “Did the Magician’s Council not think it just to interfere when an usurper took control of what was not his?”

“Of course we did. We were overruled by a king!” Reibeart retorts, and thus a rivalry is born. Godric is not exactly fond of Reibeart, but he would prefer he and Astell not stab each other before they arrive in London. Fríða and Sigrún grin and keep Reibeart away from Astell with false pleas for his assistance elsewhere.

Astell frowns when he meets Móra of Mòine Tèadhaic, though Godric cannot fathom why until Astell says, “I’m fairly certain you lead a raid against us a few years ago.”

Móra stares at him in irritated disbelief. “Yes, but that was _several years ago_. That time is not now.”

“But—” Astell tries, and Godric rolls his eyes before moving Astell and his commanding officers along to meet the others. One ridiculous rivalry per campaign is all he’s allowing any of them.

Introducing Astell to the royalty present is almost as fun as introducing the man to Myrddin. The king of Màrr, the queen of Muireb, the king of Cumbria, and the Heir to Galloway’s Throne, Prince Morcant, seem to be an incomprehensible hurdle until Morcant takes pity on Astell and begins discussing their departure from Bristol. “My sons have already gone on to Gifle in the southeast,” he says, and Astell snaps his focus back where it belongs—on military matters.

Helga, Iuar, Iwar, and Alfarrin of the Mark find Godric when he is helping to load the boats for the journey to London. Godric is trying hard not to dwell on how much he is going to dislike four days aboard a ship, and that will only prove true if the seas do not worsen.

“I’ve heard Bricstow, Bristol, and Brycgstow used as words to refer to this port,” Alfarrin says, speaking for the others before Helga or the twins can do so. “What is this place truly called?”

Godric flicks his wand to send the rough-hewn crate upwards, where it is caught by Hafr. It is a large container, yet Hafr’s size makes it appear tiny. “All three of them are correct. Bricstow is the old Saxon rather than English. There are many Saxon groups who still dwell in these lands who cling to the true form of their tongue. In English—West Saxon English—it is meant to be Brycgstow, but the _franceis_ trading influence is strong here. Brycgstow is so often Latinized to Bristol that even I grew up hearing it spoken that way.”

“There are so many languages upon our isle, it’s a wonder any of us can speak to each other at all,” Iuar says with wry humor. “Would any Christian here be offended if I asked our gods for good sailing? I’ve never visited our homeland of Noregi for very good reason.”

“I’m glad to find I am not the only one not looking forward to this,” Godric mutters. “I find no offence, Iuar, but others might. If you do so, choose a private moment away from ears that might turn unfriendly out of fear.”

Helga frowns. “They tolerate us otherwise.”

“Yes, but…” Godric considers it. Helga has spent most of her childhood in the far north, away from the Christians in Muireb, England, and all of the small kingdoms in between. “The peace I demonstrate with other faiths is common in magical circles. It is not nearly so tolerated among the non-magical, and we will travel in lands that do not accept any faith but Christianity.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Helga says.

Iwar puts a hand on Helga’s shoulder. “Peace, dear seiðkona. Fear is often ridiculous, but we cannot force others to understand our ways.”

The boats are ready to sail by the seventh of August. Godric says a quiet prayer that they were able to depart so swiftly, but everyone around him understands that time is of the essence. They must be ready before Wystan can move against them.

Sailing to London with Godric are Myrddin, King Máel Coluim, Prince Morcant, Queen Eilénóra, Emma of Griffon’s Door and Gifle, Oriel, King Domnal mac Eimen of Màrr, and Brian of Srath Èireann. Reibeart is still among them, as is Astell, though it is more difficult to keep Astell from tearing into the man with words on their small ship. Helga spends much of the journey sitting above the figurehead, gleefully laughing every time the boat plunges through the waves.

His only surprise was discovering that instead of the Norse twins, it is now Sigrún Hakisdóttir acting as the Orkney representative for the London Court. “Why?”

Sigrún shrugs a bit and steadies themselves as the boat rises and falls on another wave. “The others conferred and decided that while my temper is hot, it flares for the right reasons rather than ridiculous ones.”

“Everyone else was afraid they would find insult with the king on my behalf, weren’t they?”

Sigrún smiles, but a sharp bite lurks behind it. “We already find England’s behavior towards our ally to be offensive, Lord Godric. I am able to quiet my tongue, but I will loosen it if I feel it is required to assist you.”

Godric thanks her and moves on, but Eilénóra sees him and joins Godric on his walk to the shallow berth beneath the deck that gives them respite from the waves and a place to sleep. “Do you need something from me, Eilénóra?”

Eilénóra shakes her head. “No, Godric. I simply know you well enough to recognize that you are feeling frustrated. Is it the idea of London?”

“No, I all but know what to expect from that quarter,” Godric replies. “It is also not a fear of battle, or directing men to do as I bid to succeed. I’m far more baffled by the need to treat everyone under my command as if they’re still in the nursery.”

Eilénóra laughs aloud. “Godric, the hardest part of commanding any army is keeping tempers soothed long enough to defeat the enemy. My husband often says it would be easier to teach cats to flock after a shepherd.”

***          *          *          ***

 

Godric does not truly relax until the boat leaves the rough seas and is sailing down the gentler waters of the Tamesis. He will find difficulties soon enough, and while he can, he will enjoy the peace of fields and wood that border the river.

He does not enjoy the smell of it, however. It is an odor that increases in pungency the closer they get to London. Magicians were once tasked with keeping the river as clean as they could, even if they fought a battle against those who refused to stop using the river as their personal refuse pile.

“Do no magicians work to relieve the river of this stench?” Domnal asks, looking ill.

“Not since the sudden death of King Edgar,” Astell says, peering moodily over the side of the boat. “I know I wear a charm to defend myself against that fool’s magic, but the air seems so much heavier than before. Does anyone else feel this way?”

“That weight is far worse in Griffon’s Door,” Oriel says, which gives the others pause.

“Ignore it,” Myrddin orders them. His voice rings with the command, one that seems almost magical in nature, but Godric feels no magic crawling over his skin. “To give thought to that magic is to feed its strength, and that is something we can ill afford.”

They do not sail all the way into London’s port, but pull the boat ashore several furlongs distant. It is not only easier to ride to the castle on horseback, it’s safer.

Coming ashore this far from London also grants them enough privacy to camp beneath sheltering trees that night. Godric lies on his pallet, feeling as if the sea followed him. The ground seems to rise and fall beneath him, though he is fully aware that nothing is moving at all.

Godric has no sooner stirred himself out of his tent to make a hot infusion of herbs over the fire when Oriel approaches. “The others are asking if we should wear armor to Court.”

Godric gives her a blank look. “It’s morning.”

“So it is,” Oriel says dryly. “They are still wishing to know, Godric.”

“I just crawled out of a tent,” he mutters. “Can they not wait ten minutes?”

“Probably, but it’s fun to confound you,” Oriel says, and leaps up to flee before Godric can think to draw his wand for vengeance.

“No armor,” he says to Eilénóra when she seeks him out. “I do not wish to send the message that we are seeking war with _them._ However, dressing in garb appropriate for a visit to Court might not be amiss. As befitting your station, of course,” he adds, grinning.

“You mean to impress them into compliance.”  Eilénóra smiles, amused. “I will tell the others, though I doubt Myrddin will wish to change his clothes.”

“Myrddin might fall over dead from the shock of it if he put on finery.” Godric just plans to allow Myrddin’s appearance confuse everyone, as he will be the dried and desiccated fruit in the midst of a bounty.

Godric is glad he is already dressed the next time someone enters his tent without asking first. Fortunately, it is Helga and not Eilénóra intent on seeing that he is dressed properly. He’s had enough practice at it by now to know how to put on clothing and not look a fool.

“You do look quite striking in scarlet,” Helga says while Godric uses a sliver of mirror to be certain everything is as it should be. “It seems an odd color for you, given your hair, but you wear it well.”

“Thank you.” Godric takes one final glance in the mirror. Silk shirt, tunic, and a light cloak of a red so dark it is nearly brown. His truis are the same color as the cloak. He’s repaired a slight tear in his belt and removed the scuffs so that it looks new. The hilt of his spathe is gleaming, as is the golden pendant of the oak tree over the hill. Instead of hiding beneath his clothing, he’s lengthened the cord so that it rests over his breast. It’s a fine match for the silver cloak pin with its single gemstone for his mastery in Mind Magic.

“I’ve never seen that pendant before,” Helga says.

“It was a gift from...” Godric smiles. “Well. She is currently my betrothed, but I believe it was a ploy to keep my uncle from attempting to court her. After Wystan is dead, it is most likely we will be friends again.”

“Do you want to be mere friends again?” Helga asks.

Godric considers it. “I haven’t seen her in many years, though we’ve exchanged letters often. I would like to know her again as a friend before I consider marrying her.”

“How do you know you will not see her and decide she should remain your betrothed?”

Godric turns around, frowning. Helga has chosen to wear a gown in the English style, which looks odd with its obvious Norse embroidery and her jeweled veil. The fabric is dyed golden yellow, which is almost as valued as Tyrian purple. “What is it you know that I do not?” he asks her.

Helga drops into a smug curtsey. “Why, my Lord Godric should recall that prophecy is not one of my talents.”

“Helga!”

She grins. “But sometimes it speaks to me, regardless. I do not know if you wed her, but you will certainly be interested in courting her.”

Godric glares at Helga. “Instead of taunting me, may we pack up and depart? I would like to terrify a king into granting me part of his army before this day is done.”

Helga’s laugh rings out like pealing bells. “Do you think he will?”

“I believe the right words will grant us _something_ of value,” Godric replies, wrapping the mirror before putting it away. “I do not yet know what that is.”

They reach the outer walls of London by noon. The closer they get to the bridge that will grant them access to the city, the more Godric feels the curl of anticipation in his chest. He expected to be nervous, given what he has come to request. Instead, he feels as if he has finally taken the steps that will ultimately bring him the opportunity to rest his blade over Wystan Grypusdor’s throat.

The stable hands that greet them in the courtyard stare at them all in bewilderment. One of the younger ones goes to the gate keeper, who bustles out to them and then proceeds to gape. Godric rolls his eyes and approaches him. “You may wish to fetch the castle steward,” he says. “Oh, and is His Highness seated in his hall at the moment?”

The gate keeper narrows his eyes. “I think I might remember you. It’s been a while, but I believe you to be young Lord Godric of Griffon’s Door.”

“That I am.” Godric tilts his head and searches his memory for features similar to this man. “Oh! You’re Bertran of Winchester. You look quite a bit different with a beard upon your face.”

Bertran smiles. “It is a pleasure to be remembered by a lord of Somerset, Lord Godric. His Highness King Æthelred is not yet at his table in the Great Hall, but he will be within the hour.”

That is fortuitous timing, and Godric is going to take advantage of it. “Then I ask your assistance. I need to address His Highness in the Great Hall with his Court present to witness it.”

Bertran’s smile vanishes. “You are welcome here, Lord Godric, but to announce you in such a manner is not…it will not please Her Highness very much.”

“Really.” Godric grins and moves to stand at Bertran’s side so he can gesture in the direction of his companions. “You would keep royalty waiting?”

“Royalty?” Bertran squeaks.

“Indeed. That is the King of Cumbria. That is the Heir to the throne of Galloway. That is the Queen of Muireb. That is the king of Màrr. That is a Lady of the Orkney Eorldom, the daughter of Lord Hlodvir Thorfinnsson. That is the Eorl of Clover’s Hand and Thornbyrig, Lord Astell, who is wedded to my sister.”

Bertran looks at Godric as if he has just betrayed everything sacred in the land. “You could not have sent warning?” he asks plaintively.

“Unfortunately, we lack birds for messages,” Godric says, but does not mention the messages that have been passed back and forth by Patroni. “We sailed here from Galloway and Bristol, and it has been a tiring journey. Should we not be introduced to the king’s hall?”

“All right! I yield!” Bertran flings his arms up and yells for the nearest stable hand. “But I will not be the one announcing the lot of you to the Court!”

“And you’ve yet to mention me,” Myrddin says in amusement.

“You’ve been muttering about how you do not wish to be involved in royal English affairs for three days, Myrddin,” Godric replies. “I will not be mentioning you by name unless someone asks why I am sharing company with an ill-dressed beggar.”

Myrddin mutters something rude under his breath and wanders off to accost the stable hand who is attempting to lead his horse away. Godric shakes his head and resettles the hat upon his head. It will look a bit odd, given his status, but it is still a means to escape a coronet.

Not that he currently owns a coronet. He could Transfigure one, perhaps, but if he is going to wear one of the sarding things, he’d rather it be the one that has belonged to his House for several generations.

Bertran absents himself as soon as possible, disappearing with the horses and the stable hands. He is replaced by Girardus of Surrey, a man of quiet bearing who Godric remembers fondly.

“They have made you Steward?” Godric asks. “What happened to Lovell?”

“Old age took him at last, and good riddance to that fool,” Girardus says. When Godric grips his arm in greeting, Girardus lowers his head and says in a quiet voice, “Please tell me you have returned in order to rid England of Wystan Grypusdor.”

Godric frowns. “Has he caused offence beyond the offence of his presence?”

“He has been ill-mannered enough to cause Queen Ælfthryth to ban him from Court,” Girardus answers, grimly pleased. “He will not be present to hear what you have to say.”

That is an advantage Godric was not certain they would have. “Good. Word will reach him soon enough of my return.”

Girardus is still frowning. “You should also take care within the king’s hall, Lord Godric. The king is on the throne, but it his mother’s hand who guides his word.”

“In that case, announce only myself and those of England when we enter the hall,” Godric requests.

“You—you wish me to _ignore_ the presence of royalty?” Girardus asks in angry dismay.

“They are not here to petition the King of England. That is _my_ role, Steward Girardus. Their presence is only in support of my task unless things become…difficult.”

“Difficult,” Girardus repeats, face twisting as if the word itself is sour. “Very well. If I am dismissed from my position in this castle, you had best be willing to hire me!”

The king’s Great Hall in London Castle is not as fine as the one in Corfe Castle. The room is larger, yes, but it is supported by stone columns rather than aged wooden beams. The narrow windows for archers and defence do not grant enough entry for light or escape for sound. Despite the number of rich tapestries adorning the walls and long swaths of Tyrian purple fabric draped across the ceiling, every footfall echoes, every whisper a multitude.

Godric thinks the choice of Tyrian for the ceiling to be excessive expensive, even for the Court, until he notices the hint of scarlet painting the edges of the fabric. Not true Tyrian dye, but a Transfiguration charm that is already fading. That is shoddy magical work—or a slighted and vengeful magician.

The trestle tables stand with over half the seating empty, signifying it is not a full Court held this day, but that is well enough. Those who hold the most power in England keep close to their king in hopes of currying more favor, and thus, more power.

He does not see a hint of Sedemai’s fiery hair. He feels brief disappointment and then ignores it; he will see Sedemai and her entire family soon enough.

King Æthelred has grown quite a bit since Godric saw him last. At age fourteen, he strongly resembles his murdered brother, which causes Godric a momentary pang of grief. Æthelred’s hair is a mild brown, as are his eyes, but he has lost almost all hints of childhood to become a strikingly handsome young man.

Æthelred’s mother, the Dowager Queen Ælfthryth, studies each of them with a wintry gaze that borders on disapproval. Godric can’t think of why she would offer guests such disregard.

Or perhaps she has always looked upon others this way, and he never noticed? Godric searches his memory while waiting for Girardus to announce those of Griffon’s Door. He remembers her looking often on her young son with seeming delight, and he does not recall her gazing upon King Edgar with scorn.

Girardus waits until the sudden noise from their unexpected entrance has fallen silent. “Your Highness, my Lord Æthelred, I present to you an entourage of men and women here on behalf of Griffon’s Door in Somerset.”

Æthelred glances at his mother, who grants him a slight nod. “Very well, then,” Æthelred says, facing them once more. “Tell me who has come to my hall without courtesy while expecting the same.”

Girardus’s voice carries across the Great Hall easily, leaving no room for doubt in what others will hear. “Oriel Sevestresdóttir, Master Magician of Givelcestre and Griffon’s Door in the Eorldom of Somerset. Emma of Givelcestre, soldier of those of the Oaken Staff who guard Griffon’s Door in Somerset. The Lord Astell, Magical Eorl of Clover’s Hand and Thornbyrig in Gleawceaster, son of Lord Alard and Countess Linet of Clover’s Hand.”

Godric feels as if he is bracing himself when Girardus announces him: “The Lord Godric, Heir of Leofric Grypusdor and Magical Eorl of Griffon’s Door in the Eorldom of Somerset, the war-titled Guardian Fire of the South.”

Æthelred stares at him, which is an act shared by most of the Court. “Lord Godric,” the king finally murmurs. “It is…a pleasure to see you again. My brother always spoke highly of you, and you have proven his words true with your consideration to my person despite your long absence from our kingdom.”

Godric does not make the mistake of his childhood by referring to the king with a title borne of the _franceis_ influence upon his family. “My Lord Æthelred,” he says, dropping into a bow that lasts just long enough to signal respect. He is not yet willing to offer the young king the devotion that Edward and their father Edgar had earned from him, though he is not sure why he is being so cautious. “I am glad to be remembered to My Lord. The Tyrian color of Rome suits His Highness quite well.”

Æthelred taps his finger on the ornate golden brooch that clasps his Tyrian purple cloak. “As is fitting for the King of England,” he says, though the words have the sound of rote repetition instead of belief. “Lord Astell, why do you enter my hall in Lord Godric’s company?” he asks, ignoring Oriel, Emma, and—except for a brief, curious glance—the rest of Godric’s allies.

The Dowager Queen is not ignoring Godric’s allies. She is staring at them, eyes narrowed and lips pursed, as if deciding by what means she will put them to death.

Astell offers the king a bow that lasts no longer than Godric’s had. “My Lord, I am here to support my brother by marriage in his quest to reclaim Griffon’s Door from an unjust and undeserving hand.”

Godric does his best to ignore the noise the Court is making in response to Astell’s announcement, but it is so sarding loud it’s difficult even to think. He settles for continuing to regard his king with the pleasant expression he bore when walking into this hall. Somberness will not do, not for this, though his petition carries the serious weight of judgement before the Almighty.

Queen Ælfthryth stands and places her hand on her son’s shoulder so that he will remain seated on the throne. “Young Lord Godric,” she says in a quiet, stern voice. “You have come to my son’s hall with others. We would hear their names.”

If she means to intimidate him into cowering before the throne, she is years too late in the attempt. “Of course, Lady Ælfthryth.” Godric turns his head so that he may indicate each of his allies in turn. “I present to the Court my allies in my undertaking: Her Highness Lady Eilénóra Járnknésdottir of Éireann, Queen of Muireb; Lord Máel Coluim, King of Strathclyde and the North Britons of Cumbria; Lord Morcant ab Cynbel, Heir to the Magical Throne of Galloway, son of the King of the North Britons, His Highness Cynbel of the Iron Blade; Lady Helga Hlodvirsdóttir, Seiðkona and first-born daughter of Lord Hlodvir Thorfinnsson, youngest son of Thorfinn Einarsson, ninth reigning jarl of the Orkney Eorldom; Lady Helga’s personal guard and trusted ally, the warrior Sigrún Hakisdóttir; Lord Domnal mac Eimen, King of Màrr; Lord Brian, youngest son of Máedóc, Lord of Srath Èireann; and Reibeart of the Magical Witenaġemōt, also called the Magician’s Council.”

Reibeart bows before anyone can ask his rank. “I am also called Lord Reibeart, Heir to Lord Warin, Magical Eorl of Cent.” Godric finds Lord Warin at table just as the older man nods at his son when Reibeart rises from his bow. Reibeart glances at his father in swift greeting, but otherwise keeps his eyes upon the throne.

“You bring royalty into _my_ hall and leave them unnamed?” Æthelred blurts out in anger.

 _Excellent. You’ve your father’s temper,_ Godric thinks in resignation. “My Lord, in this matter they are not petitioners or guests to your Court, but allies to my cause.”

“Allies,” Ælfthryth says, face taut with what Godric thinks might be fear. That is not the impression he meant to create. He fears he has just destroyed any chance he held of gaining the king’s blessing for this endeavor, much less assistance. “You mean to say that four rulers of the north follow _you_?”

Eilénóra steps forward and does not curtsey or bow, but merely inclines her head to grant respect, one ruler to another. The Dowager Queen dresses in layers of rich silk, and the king might look well in Tyrian purple, but Eilénóra was forged by grace and iron in the north. In her simple woven cornet of gold, veiled golden hair, and richly embroidered blue gown, she easily outshines most of the Court. “Your Highness. We have come with purpose, and that purpose is to see our friend and ally, Lord Godric Grypusdor of Somerset, rightly seen returned to his home. We will depart from England when Lord Godric is recognized as the true Lord of Griffon’s Door and Magical Eorl of Somerset.”

Ælfthryth frowns. “You are a year too soon to claim your inheritance. Wystan Grypusdor was named Steward of Griffon’s Door by your father’s own word, which was confirmed by King Edgar before my husband’s death.”

“Your pardon, Your Highness, but only the act of King Edgar is true. The rest is a falsehood that I will bear no more.” Godric’s words turn flat and harsh with anger. “My father and grandmother were _slain_ by Wystan Grypusdor on the eleventh day of Augustus in 974. The Battle of the Mark was contrived by my uncle so that he would rid himself of his brother and his mother. He then used foul blood magic to cast an enchantment over the whole of Somerset. It poisons air and thought, and its pall is felt throughout the south of this isle.”

Godric notices Juhel when the man lifts his head, an expression of triumph crossing his features. Juhel had been chief among the magicians in Edgar’s Court before the king’s death, and Edward had retained him in the role, but he does not stand near the throne.

None of the magicians of the court are near to the throne, Godric suddenly realizes, and those who are present are half the number they once were.

He has long suspected that Wystan’s spell might have stirred men to act upon their tempers, fueling the anger that led directly to Edward’s murder. Juhel knew this, or suspected it, and was ignored when he voiced those concerns.

Godric clenches his jaw and releases one of his chosen weapons for this petition, for the harmony between the Court’s magic-workers and the throne is broken. It will take time and patience, and for the young king to gain an education in these matters, before such a severing is healed.

Shit. Shit! He walked into a den of suspicion and found it to be a mire. He can do but one thing now, and it will have to be enough.

“My Lord Æthelred.” Godric drops into a slight bow before straightening, looking at the young king and no one else. “I know you’ve no reason to believe my word. It has been too long since we spent time in each other’s company, and when I return, it appears as if I come to you with a royal collusion to take your throne. Believe me when I say I do _not_ want your throne. I merely intend for my home and lands to be saved from one who would bring only death and ruination. I do not need My Lord’s assistance in this matter, as my allies already see me well fortified for a battle that will not be easy. I only ask your blessing in these matters. I do not wish to act when you might condemn it, but my conscience would fester with guilt if I left my people to suffer through another year of Wystan’s dubious rule.”

Godric holds his breath and waits as the king stares at him, frowning. Then Æthelred rises, shaking off his mother’s hand to do so, and approaches him. Æthelred has to lift his head quite a bit in order to lock eyes with Godric. For a moment, Æthelred seems intimidated by Godric’s height, and then the king ignores it.

“Wystan Grypusdor of Somerset has offered this Court such insult with his ill grace that my mother banned him from attending to us in London unless it is a holy day,” Æthelred finally says. “Your father never offered such, nor have you. Even your allies, men and women who are oft our enemies in the north, have behaved honorably in my presence. You will have my blessing if I have but one thing in return.”

Godric tries not to wince. He has certainly spent enough time with Stígandr to know to be leery of such bargains. “What does My Lord wish of me?”

“To swear fealty to my crown.” Æthelred shrugs a little when Godric’s eyebrows fly up in surprise. “You did so for my father, though I know you must have been young. You swore fealty to my brother after our father’s death. Now there are none left but me. Will you grant me the same honor, Lord Godric?”

Godric blinks a few times before he responds. “Your Highness, to swear fealty to my kingdom and your crown, I would swear upon a stack of illuminated bindings of the Holy Book and stand in a font of holy water if that is what you demanded of me.”

Æthelred smiles, revealing that he retains a great deal of his youthful enthusiasm. “That sounds far too complicated. Lord Astell and Lord Reibeart, will you witness his oath?”

“We do not have a relic for this oath,” a man in a priest’s fine robe says. Godric glances at him, wondering why the Archbishop Dunstan holds no place in Æthelred’s Court.

“The sword will do,” Æthelred says without concern. “If it is a blade worn and blooded in service to this kingdom, it is holy by its very nature.”

Godric removes the spatha from its sheath before lowering himself to rest on one knee. This will be the third time in his life that he has sworn fealty to an English king, and he is only seventeen years of age. England really cannot afford this constant unseating of kings.

After Reibeart and Astell have taken their places behind them, blades unsheathed to point at the earth to which their bodies will one day be returned, Æthelred recites the pledge of a lord to his loyal man.

He does not include any of the traditional words used when the servant pledging themselves is magical. Godric decides he will not be mentioning that, either.

“By the Lord, before whom this sword is made holy by the blood of our enemies, I will be to Æthelred, King of the English, faithful and true, and love all that he loves, and shun all that he shuns according to God’s own law, and according to the principles of this world. I will never, by will or by force, by word or by work, do that which is hateful to him, on condition that he keeps this same faith with me, spoken as willing and deserving, and all that fulfill our agreement was just as when I submitted to him and chose him as my Lord.”

The words are not the _exact_ same oath that his father taught him, but Godric finds some of the original oath of fealty to be verging on blasphemy against the Almighty. If his king takes offence at his oath, he will know soon enough.

Æthelred hesitates only a moment before offering his hand. Godric grasps it and gains his feet. “Your oath is well spoken,” Æthelred murmurs just before he steps back. “Lord Godric, Eorl of Griffon’s Door in the realm of Somerset: you have my royal blessing to proceed in your task. May you succeed in ridding England of an ill-mannered raider who saw himself raised to a station he was not fit for; may you succeed in reclaiming your home with the assistance of your allies.”

It is permission and a rebuke both. Godric wonders how often Æthelred is coached on his words, as he is far more educated in this than his father. “I will not forget this, My Lord.” No, he will not forget that rebuke, nor the fact that England will not deign to help him rid the land of Wystan Grypusdor.


End file.
